Kiss In The Dark
by Kira Loves
Summary: Lassiter has had a reoccurring "nightmare" about a homoerotic scene since he was in his twenties. Twenty years later, he's experienced temporary relief but for some reason the dream arises without any trigger. Things worsen as Shawn shows an increasing curiosity in the detective and a desire to "bond".
1. Bad Dreams

**A/N: Well, I'm **_**supposed**_** to be editing things but I honestly couldn't get this idea out of my head. Too many unexpressed feels. Also, I will be switching over my updates to tumblr (where I'll have lots of things going on as well) so if you'd like to know where things are headed in the future then please check me out: .com.**

Hot breath. Hot like the steam streaming from a fired rifle, spiraling out in sweet wisps of gundpowder. Anxious lips follow the trail and they're as soft as the bed Lassiter falls down into. Then there's a warm, wet tongue accompanied by the bite of bitter alcohol like wading out into the never ending ocean lapping up at tropical coasts. He senses inexperience from his partner, this younger boy with a thin frame and hair long enough to run fingers through although briefly. The dark and the beer swell around them and he welcomes the closeness it creates. His head swims as his lips dive into neck and collar bone. It all felt like some divine alternate reality, a closed off dimmension in space and time where graduation wasn't happening, where his outed lesbian mother had disappeared and where the eventuality of the future ceased to exist. All that is in this pocket of the universe is tongue and sweat and reckless abandon.

Lassiter shoots up straight from his bed with a deep gasp. The sweat that engulfs his body greedily sticks to his dark but graying hair and he shakes as he tries to brush it away. With a sense of panic and annoyance, he journeys through the dark of his bedroom to the bathroom where he shrugs off his boxers and ignores the obvious and leaking erection that's released from cotton and elastic. The forty year old tries to dismiss his reflection entirely but the hope is lost and he looks at the flushed and aroused version of his mirrored self with a painfulness. Why was this happening again?

The dream of the past and a make believe encounter plagued the detective for most of his life. It started in his early twenties and it seemed reoccuring. It would just play as if queued for his sleep. The first time it happened, he tried to shake it off but it kept coming back further disturbing him. It almost cost him his graduation from the police academy if he hadn't of course avoided sleep with constant training and studying.

After graduating though, the dream started to occur less. It never fully went away but it started pacing itself as if it was waiting for the most opportune times; anniversaries, big cases, and worst of all his wedding night. It even came for a few rounds when he was going through his divorce. However, the cop's life had taken a turn for the routine and there didn't seem to be any reason for his homoerotic nightmare to show up.

He hisses as he jumps into a cold shower. The high pressured droplets pinch at his skin, cold fingers that ease his erection away. It doesn't have to be this way. The full grown man shivering in the shower did have other options but neither of them were desirable. Waiting out his boner meant having to think about it's presence and he'd always figured that the less he thought about it the better. On the other hand there's also the more...pleasurable route but to even think of addressing the need the dream creates would be criminal to his sexuality. At least that's what he tells himself anyway.

He can feel his feet wet the carpet as he pads back to his bed. Now in the safety of a warm towel he glances at his digital clock. A triplet of fives gleam back to him in neon blue and he sighs. He could have had another five minutes of sleep but what's the point in trying?

The towel flurries around his body with efficiency as soft light leaks in through the blinds gating his square cut windows. Everything in his house is like that; modern, clean edges, and with little to no decorations. Here and there is a small family heirloom that had managed to plant itself in a corner or on a shelf but it looks out of place. Even Lassiter's civil war reinactment uniform appears foreign as it hides in the back of the line of suits and ties. The conservative republican eyes the costume in his closet as he selects his charcoal gray suit for the work day, the one with lighter buttons that shine a little. The muted, dark blue tie is already hanging around the neck. He has a habit of prearranging his suits and ties from top to bottom almost the way a military man would clean and present his gun. It simply makes mornings easier and it kills time on the nights when he does't have a big workload or a date (the latter occuring more than the former).

He's in the kitchen in a matter of minutes having traded his towel for a suit and his wet feet for the squeak of shined Bostonians. The shoes are darker than usual as they contrast against the white tile. He turns on Old Faithful, a coffee maker purchased in the late 90's, before sneaking out the front door and intercepting his daily newspaper. Then it's just the sound of russling newsprint and gurgling coffee to drown out the unbearable, underlying silence.

It isn't just the fact that Lassiter's a high school senior again in his dream and it's not even the fact that it's a reoccuring _gay_ wet dream. All of those factors seem a little less important as time goes on. The most bothersome thing about the dream is that Lassiter has no idea who this mystery boy is. He never recalled being friends with any underclassmen or even really talking to any underclassmen. Then again he didn't really have friends either. Regardless, the detective did earn some clues over the years as to who the stranger of his nightmare is. Younger or at least smaller, a somewhat thin frame, hair a little long for a boy but not quite hippie length and...that was it. Other than that the dream is comprised of sensations, tastes, smells, etc. All things that are useless in figuring out the central being of this dream. Not only that but Lassiter prefers _not_ to recall the sensations. They are to be avoided at all costs actually.

The preoccupied cop blinks to see that he has seamlessly appeared in the Santa Barbara police department. That's not unusual really. Sometime after that first sip of coffee is a streamline of monotonous events that not even clean cut Lassiter can coerce himself into enjoying let alone paying attention to. There's still a cup of coffee in his hand too, still warm and blacker than the shine of his shoes. He either brings his own cup of joe or he drinks from the never ending fountain of bitter caffiene that is the department's Mr. Coffee. His name is called out to him in a friendly co working manner and he replies with a stern head nod, that slight bob signaling his acknowledgement and professionalism all at once. Not quite friendly just a form of social obligation really.

Like his home, his desk is clean and straighter than a ruler. The only odd outsider planted amongst stiffly stacked papers and neatly organized office supplies is a dirt filled ceramic pot. Within the cubed pot is the corpse of a poinsetta, a dried up stem and a few stray leaves that shriveled and wrinkled up like prunes. The flower was once been full, it's red layers splayed out like millions of excited hands. It was a gift from Shawn. Lassiter forgets the occasion though he assumes it was some half assed attempt at an apology. Any way it was, Lassiter is not the gardening sort. The pretty flower lasted about a week and while it had died some time ago Lassiter still can't muster up the effort to despose of it and thus it sits there useless, dead and severly out of place.

"Good morning, Lassiter!"

O'Hara floats past him as her heels ceremoniously clack against the hard floor ruining her airy walk. Her blonde hair is confined to a ponytail today, a bit high and a tight to suit her. Her smile is warm and her cheeks have a flush to them from the outdoor heat. July in Santa Barbara could be unbearable some days.

"Morning, O'hara" he gives her a borderline smile well endowed with his quiet affection for her.

They rummage through paperwork in their own comforting quiet. Every now and then his spunky, young partner would denote what she though was an interesting event or story. Her grin would play at her lips and she had that soft tinkle of a laugh, short and sweet like a little bell. Lassiter would nod in response. He doesn't like to talk much and the perky blonde had become accustomed to that. She nonetheless appreciates that he listens and sometimes, if she's earnest enough and her anecdote is truly amusing, she can get that serious visage to confess a smirk.

The drowsy and content morning slips into the afternoon and with it a change of pace. The deparment becomes a blur of movement and a buzz of noise as officers get down to their work but Lassiter hardly notices. He's in the middle of tying up the paperwork of last week's combination murder and theft. It would have been easier if the theft hadn't been of the murdered corpse. It didn't help that it all had to do with Monoply money and some kind of beer brewed only in Canada. How Spencer figured out that one was anyone's guess.

_Brat. He ought to be doing this paperwork._ Lassiter mentally grunted.

Lassiter couldn't help his resentment toward Shawn. Only someone with the good graces of Mother Teresea (or O'Hara) could manage to stomach the phony psychic for more than five minutes. Oddly enough it isn't Spencer's thunder stealing powress of observation and detective skills that makes the cop dislike him. If anything his talents spark awe in Lassiter. He's amazed and intrigued how this younger man can simply glance at a newspaper clipping, point his finger in the air and lead them to victory. Watching him deduce and map out things...it's almost beautiful.

In all reality the aversion stems from what an utter waste the little genius makes of his talents. For years he did nothing but the odds and ends of random jobs, calling in tips to the police as a _hobby_. A hobby! As if murders and theft and kidnappings were games of tertris that he could play out in his leisure. Then when he actually had the balls to put his skills to use he still couldn't do it properly. No, he has to give credit to the _spirit world_. He can't just claim his true gift. Either that or he feels it more entertaining to feign mysticism but either way Lassiter can't stand it.

"Good morning, Lassie!"

_Think of the devil and he shall come striding in wearing a stupid t-shirt._

Shawn sat on Lassiter's desk, his jeans smoothing over the fake wood as he leaned over and greeted O'Hara. It had taken time for the two to reconcile back to a pace of normalcy after their break up. Shawn was truly heart broken for the longest time but then it was hard to be in a negative mood around O'Hara. She was so sweet that the anger and the hurt seemed to disipate and, after all, they didn't end on terrible terms. The blonde had simply woken up and realized that it wasn't going to work and as much as Shawn wanted her to be mistaken, somwhere he felt she was right.

"So," Spencer says as he turns back to face the head detective, "what say you and I go grab a bite of Chinese today? My treat."

Lassiter looks at Shawn from the side. He swears he just heard the little pest offer him lunch but that can't be right.

"What?"

"Don't give me that face, Lassiecakes," he leans closer into him, "I'm just trying to be nice. I figure you and I could use some bonding time."

Lassiter's glance tumbles back into his paperwork but it's all signed and ready to go. He feigns reading it over despite the fact that it's absolutely correct in every way. His blues glide over the words as his mouth seems to dip into more disdain.

"Why in God's name would I ever want to bond with you?"

"Because secretly you're longing to know me better?"

That earned a glare however the ever helpful blonde swoops into the conversation, her voice piping up before Lassiter can respond.

"Maybe that's not such a bad idea," she offers.

Lassiter looks at his partner increduously. Did she suddenly not know Lassiter and Shawn or their dynamic? Having lunch together, simple as it may sound, would be a battleground in a matter of minutes.

"You're on board with this- insanity?"

"Hear me out, Carlton." she pleaded with that sweet little look in her pretty green eyes, "Shawn seems sincere about this and who knows, this might be the chance you two get to finally see eye to eye."

"Who knows? _I_ know. There's no way Spencer's actually extending a free meal to me without some kind of ulterior motive."

Shawn raises his arms in that overdramatic fashion as if he's cornered and attempting to reason. Sometimes it just made Lassiter want to punch him in the face. As if to say 'calm this, you little shit!' However, years of hard training advises his body against the urge.

"I am completely genuine, Carly," Shawn does that thing where his eyes widen a bit and the urge to hit him increases, "I sincerely want to take you out to some Chinese food, with all of my eager little heart."

He brings his index finger over his chest and draws an 'x' over his left pec. He still has his right hand in the air too. _An oaf's oath, how charming._

"_Your_ treat, right?"

Where'd that come from? Surely Lassiter misheard himself.

"Absolutely," still an air of stupidity but what more can the hard egded cop ask for?

"Fine," he ignores it as the buffoon does a victory dance and the blonde's smile further brightens, "but I'm driving."

This seems to bring Shawn down a little and Lassiter smirks finding some satisfaction in it. He grabs his keys with a swiftness and begins heading out, determined to keep control of this situation.

"Ah, I wanted to drive!" Shawn whines.

"You're treating me not taking me out on a date, now let's get this over with," he walks and talks at the same time, his words like his steps; quick and commanding.

Lassiter hears the definitive sound of the slap of a high five. It's small in attempts to go unnoticed but the little clap takes a straight shot into the detective's ear and it makes him question everything. The blonde and the buffoon are up to something; Lassiter can sense it. However, as the experienced cop walks out into near blinding Santa Barbara sunlight (Spencer trailing behind him) he decides that it might be more succesful to let it play out a bit. Then he could interrogate Shawn to his heart's content but first-

"Hu Wong's or Little Dragon?"

**A/N: I'll be honest, I don't know where I'm going with this but with all the super planned things I'm doing right now I need something with some flexibility. I can't promise any amount of chapters or anything like that. This is kind of like that child you find living out in the jungle and you start trying to raise it. Y'all don't know what you're going to get. XD Review and such, until next time. :)**


	2. Misplaced Hit

**A/N: Just wanted to reply to a couple reviews before this gets started:**

**Watson Baker, I am trying to tame this wild jungle raised child but unfortunately he's still confused about little things like chewing with his mouth closed and realizing that there's no need to try and kill my neighbor's cats in attempt to eat them...at least he's not throwing his shit anymore, damn those chimps that were raising him. :/**

**Ookami-jin, I'm so honored that this is your first Shassie fic! I really hope you grow to love the couple even more despite how limited and semi-challenged my writing is. D:**

Lassiter and Shawn eat together with silence bordering every move. Even their eating closes in on a near pantomime as they muffle their chewing and the antsy click of chopsticks. It doesn't help that the restaurant is practically abandoned. The only company that keeps the eating pair are low hung, red, paper lamps and the waitress that ghosts in now and then. That's what Lassiter gets though for allowing Shawn to direct him to some hole in the wall place. It's a little building with a faded sign and in need of a paint job. It looks more like a front for a drug operation than a legitimate establishment. However, the building contained the little green sticker of the health inspector's approval and Lassiter has to admit that the Mongolian shrimp is pretty good (if not slightly too chewy). A rogue noodle escapes Shawn's pointed chopsticks and lands back onto his plate with a sloppy defiance. This causes the confused cop to finally assert himself and he put down his own chopsticks a little harsher than intended.

"Okay, Spencer," he says, his voice hinting at little to no patience, "What's this all about?"

"You're still on that? What? Can't I just be nice and treat you to something?"

"No."

His voice is firm and resolute like his handshake, like the way his finger pulls back the trigger on a gun. Lassiter never did understand why it is that rookies have such a hard time firing a weapon. It's simple, cock it, aim and pull. Lassiter never had trouble shooting his gun at targets or criminals. It's just a gun and it serves its purpose as all things do. That resolution is sculpted into his very face as he stares down Shawn for answers, not a lick of mercy or hesitance to be seen.

"Okay," the interrogated man sighs, "you got me."

There's a sour cockiness to the cop's slight smirk but he quickly replaces that with an expectant scowl. He knew something was up the entire time and he couldn't help but have some pride in knowing. Sometimes it's a little difficult to navigate the clever little shit. His sarcasm tends to sound too genuine and his genuine always comes out sarcastic.

"All right, out with it then," he says as he drags a napkin across his irritated mouth.

Shawn puts his elbows onto the table. The dark hair crawls up from underneath his rolled up sleeves and drifts off around the wrist. He wears a watch, silver in color and cut into linked squares that hugged the base of his hand. The face of it is blue and the silver hands on it point out the exact time; 1:52 pm. They still have over a half hour until Lassiter's lunch break is over. The perpetrator of this exhausting event folds his hands and rests his scruffy chin on them. He gives a sickeningly sweet smile and bats his lashes.

"Why, my dear, sweet, lovely Lassie, can't you tell I've brought you here to seduce you?"

Lassiter tries to hide his discomfort as he ceremoniously rolls his eyes. He takes in a brief look over the apple colored, paper lamp above them. It emits an orange glow and it feels warm and inviting and for a quick second Lassiter almost wants to reach up and touch it.

"You disgust me, Spencer," he says as his eyes land back on the mock sweetness of his consultant's face, "Be serious."

"Then seriously; there's no alternative motive," the fake psychic says with a sterness, "I'm just trying to be nice."

The lines in Shawn's forhead coupled with the straightness in his soft lips pulls the cop into believing him. Shawn can feign a lot of things; fear, kindness, even flirtaciousness but he couldn't mock severity and if he could then he never seems to want to.

"My apologies then," Lassiter says albeit with slight begrudging from his ego, "I'm just not used to you being...this nice."

He says the last word with a hint of suspicion. He's willing to put his disbelief aside, mostly, for now.

"And what's this about me disgusting you?" the other man says with false offence on his features.

"Oh come on, Spencer," Lassiter responds as his curled fingers flag down a waitress, "the idea of of _you_ having a- a thing for _me_ is just a little more than disturbing."

Lassiter asks the little China doll waitress for a beer. She nods and gives a shy smile before shuffling behind a door painted with oriental, gold symbols. The cop turns back toward the man treating him to his meal only to be a little surprised at the the serious look in his eyes.

"Why is it disturbing?" he asks before shifting to a lighter, more comical look of arrogance, "I'm not a bad catch. I'm charming and witty and, dare I say it, sexy."

He runs his fingers through the spiked point of his hair, the male equivalent of flipping it. Lassiter grabs his chopsticks and shoves a mouthful of noodles into his gob. He chews them with almost a violence as Shawn settles into the irritated expression he's given by the officer.

"I think you just hate me," Shawn pouts.

Lassiter raises his eyebrows and his mouth pinches to perfect his expression. Shawn rolls his eyes in exasperation before turning back with a devious grin.

"Okay then," he says wickedly, "if you wouldn't go gay for me, then who would you go gay for?"

The seasoned cop chokes a bit on his noodles. He manages to swallow them but a cough lingers as he nearly shouts:

"Spencer! That is-"

"Disgusting? So it's not just me then."

"Listen I just-"

"-have homophobia?" he asks, his face poised in such mock interrogation that Lassiter forces his resistance to his fisting knuckles.

"I am _not_ homophobic," he says through gritted teeth, "I'll have you know that my own mother is a lesbian."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Just because your mom is a lesbian doesn't nullify your homophobia. Or perhaps your homophobia is gendered."

Shawn breaks to take a thoughtful sip of his Coke. The head detective is left with the statement as if Shawn had just spoken a rather complicated and large word and let it sit in the air for the cop to scratch his head over.

"And what, dare I ask, is that supposed to mean?"

Shawn swirls his gaze over the restaurant. A new couple has come in, an older one. They look about Henry's age and the balding man leads his little wife with a hand on the small of her back. Lassiter also sees them but he doesn't feel the fleeting romanticism that Shawn does nor does he share the slight longing for such a relationship. Lassiter's grown cold in that regard not that he was ever one to notice cute couples in the first place.

"Most straight men are okay with lesbians," he remarks, "the hetero-normative ones, the dumb macho types. I guess to clarify, you're homophobic when it comes to guys."

"I don't care what other men are!" Lassiter says, irritated, "_I_ don't want to be with another man. Ever. You can call that homophobic if you want but I call it being straight."

He makes the mistake of closing his eyes too long. It's just a second over, one second but those lidded blues are overcome with sensations. Mouth on mouth, hot and bitter like beers in early summer. He smells the odd tango of the other boy's scent- a too adult cologne and the clean of clothes. There's skin. Skin under his tongue that tastes salty. Because the boy's nervous. And-

Lassiter jumps up from the table abruptly. He knocks over his beer in the process, the amber colored liquid clinging onto his pants in retribution. Shawn appears at his side, an unwanted friendly hand on the cop's shoulder.

"You all right? Lassie, say something!" Shawn says, concern in his voice.

The cop blinks hard and then throws the hand away from him. It's never happened like this. He's never had a daydream like that before. The sensory surprise is so shocking that his body doesn't even register it as arousing. He looks around, unsure and panicking.

"Here," Shawn says as he grabs the clothed napkin from the table, "Let me help. Geez, you're freaking out!"

The younger man innocently pats at the detective's lower abs and that sends Lassiter into further shock. His mind races with blurred images and clear sensations. There's hands, on his body and a body under his hands. Fingers tugging at waistbands. But whose? And why? Oh God.

Lassiter hits Shawn square in the right eye. Hard. The wounded man cradles his face as he grunts the pain away.

"What the fuck was that for?!" he shouts.

Lassiter fully regains his sense of reality and feels a horrible guilt crawling up his body. He can feel the wet of the beer on his lower stomach and bleeding down into his crotch. The damp, red napkin is strewn across the floor. Shawn is bent over, a hand still a makeshift patch as he curses the pain out. The sting is still on his knuckles and it makes Lassiter feel sick.

"Oh God," Lassiter says as he takes a step toward Shawn, "Spencer I-"

"No! No, you stay over there!" he yells as he backs up, "What is wrong with you!?"

"I- I-"

He couldn't answer that. He couldn't tell Shawn that he'd just had a homoerotic mind fuck out of nowhere. Even if he could, how would he explain that? He'd have to start from the beginning and spell out his biggest nightmare and insecurity in bright, bold letters- and spill it out to _Shawn Spencer_ of all people. There's no conceivable route to take, no lie he can come up with, nothing. So instead, Lassiter turns tail and runs out of the little Chinese restaurant as if his life depends on it, pushing past the waitress, going right out the door and all the way down the street. His hand grabs for his phone to call O'Hara. He can't run his way back to the office in time and he silently prayed that for once in her life, his partner wouldn't ask questions.

**A/N: Well, this is a bit short but I've accomplished what I've come for. :D I'm thinking maybe there'll be at **_**least**_** another two to three chapters for this. Anyway, rate and such (reblog if you see this on tumblr). Love you guys!**


	3. Waking Up

**A/N: More. I give you more.**

Lassiter sits comfortably in the blue plush chair across and slightly to the right from his therapist. The white tips of her manicured nails peek out from under the clipboard in her hand. Meanwhile her other hand has a pen comfortably sitting in her chubby fingers. She's like that all over, not quite fat but not in her best shape either. She looks soft all the way down from her loose curls to her round face to her button up shirt under her green sweater vest. Even her dark wash denim and black flats look casually inviting. She has a smile that's not friendly but rather sincere even with it's slight wrinkles and the pink lipstick.

"Carlton," she says, "how are you feeling today?"

Her voice has a raspyness but a sweetness. Lassiter likes that about her. He likes a lot about her. He didn't want to at first but over the past couple of weeks, she'd grown on him. She doesn't nod her head or give hums as repsonses. She writes on the board only on rare occasions but never when Lassiter's speaking. She doesn't eyeball him, doesn't judge him as a freak or fanatic when he start going on about guns or the Civil War. She's helped a lot even if she is work mandated.

"I'm feeling pretty good, Dr. Strauss," Lassiter replies.

They're supposed to talk about the cop's anger issues. More specifically about how around a month ago, Lassiter had hit Shawn Spencer for no reason and then subsequently abadoned him at a little Chinese restaraunt. But Dr. Sarah Strauss doesn't really ask about that. She lets Lassiter talk and more than that, share freely. She simply asks questions pertaining to what the head detective talks about and leaves it at that.

"I'm happy to hear that," she smiles, that pretty and warm little smile of hers, "and how is work going?"

Lassiter's face falls a little. He'd already told her that he'd apologized to Spencer but it didn't help anything. Every time Shawn is even near Lassiter, Lassiter feels like making the quickest get away possible and getting as far away as possible. Seeing the fake psychic makes his stomach turn, makes his head feels dizzy and it brings him back to that dream.

"He's taken to leaving letters on my desk," Lassiter sighs in exasperation, "sometimes they actually have something to do with a case but most days.."

"Yes?"

"Most days they're just ramblings."

Dr. Strauss shifts, putting one leg over the other. Her whole office sort of smells like vanilla and the sissy scent doesn't bother the cop. It's actually soothing in it's own way. It reminds him of the icecream in the rootbeer floats that the 'bar tender' would serve him in Old Sonora. Billy was his name and Billy used to just watch him from inside one of the fake saloons and when Lassiter would come running in, fingers pointed into fake pistols, that sweet old man would always serve him a nice tall rootbeer, big as his head, and always on the house. There are days when Lassiter remembers when Billy died, probably when he was about fourteen but he didn't know it until he had hit sixteen and had come down to Old Sonora to reminsce. Billy was gone by then, gone for a couple of years and Lassiter never even got to say goodbye.

"What do they say?" she asks, "I'm sorry. I'm just curious."

"Stuff like 'Lassie don't feel guilty', 'Lassieface, it's okay,' 'Lassafrass, all is forgiven," Lassiter recalls, "he's so concerned with me knowing that he's fine when I really don't care. Signs everything 'hugs 'n' kisses' too."

"And that bothers you?" the doctor continues.

Lassiter's face of disgust is stalled as he tries to tell his mind to wipe it away. He straightens up his posture which he'd only now realized had crinkled and folded in his displeasure. He brings his complaining hands back down to the chair and breathes a little.

"It's embarrassing," he answers.

"Why?"

"Because he shouldn't be writing me crap like that."

"And why's that? Is it because he's a man?"

"No!" Lassiter answers a bit too quickly, "Well, yes and no. I have no problem with the gays, Dr. Strauss, but I'm not one of them and neither is Shawn. Which is why it's inappropriate of him to talk that way."

"Because he's being misleading?"

Lassiter isn't sure how to answer that question so he chooses not to. The sweet doctor had told him from the start that not answering is always an option and he opts now for it. He instead stares at the carpet, a clean and solid gray working knit curls from wall to wall. He peers at it through the meticulously clean glass coffee table that separates him and the doctor and she seems to get the hint.

"I see," she says, "tell me this then, do you think he's right in assuming that you feel guilty?"

"Of course he is. I mean, I'm not Spencer's biggest fan but I never intended to hit him. I've thought about it more than enough times but I wasn't even mad at him when I did it. I just-"

"Go on," she encourages him, her hand giving a little wave.

A few seconds of silence. Once Lassiter admits this, there's no going back. But this woman is kind to him and she's good at her job. This isn't enough though and Lassiter stays tight lipped and stares at the floor.

"Tell me about something else then," she says, not showing a hint of frustration, "I know a little about your childhood, your mother, your ex wife, but what about your teenage years? Is there anything you'd like to tell me about your high school self?"

"Besides the fact that I was miserable?"

"That bad?"

Lassiter looks up at her almost increduously. She already knows about the fact that Lassiter has no idea where or even who his father is and how neglectful his mother was. Teenage Lassiter was the product of childhood Lassiter and just like child Lassiter, teenage Lassiter didn't have friends or great parents or reason to be special at all.

"Nothing changed in high school," he pointed out, "I didn't have friends, I wasn't good at anything and when it came to the books I got straight C's."

He didn't bother to tell her that he'd spent most of his time driving his brother and sister to school, packing them poorly made peanut butter and jelly sandwhiches and making night of night of macaroni 'n' cheese. His mother still worked a lot and when she wasn't she was off dating...and secretly dating women no less. She'd come out to him in his late junior year but not really by choice, he'd walked in on her and Carolyn from the diner down the street getting ready to get into the throws of lesbian love making. That was an awkward conversation and not really one Lassiter wants to get into at the moment. Or ever. Hearing it once is enough.

"Did you ever do anything for yourself?" she asked, "Anything for fun?"

"I read history books," he answers, "a lot. I liked reading about the old west when I was younger but then I started getting into the Civil War. I used to just read book after book, biographies and encyclopedias. No wonder other kids thought I was weird."

Lassiter was a bit ganglier then, not that his already lanky build made that hard to imagine. He always had his nose in some dusty old tome and the other students thought he was more than just weird for it. They actively bullied him for it. Bull headed jocks would come down the hallway, smack books out of his hands and call him a history fag. Girls were sometimes worse though, whispering about how weird he was and how he didn't know how to talk to people right. And this was before his mom's closeted habits got around to the rumor mill. Then it really became hell for him.

"And how did that make you feel?" she asks the age old question.

"Like shooting them," Lassiter answers before realizing what he's said.

He brings a hand up to his mouth and stares at his doctor with wide eyes but she just gives him a reassuring smile.

"It's okay to admit that, Carlton," she says, "you can tell me anything."

"I almost did it once," he says quickly, ripping off his filter like a band aid, "during my second semester in my senior year. I went into my mother's closet, stole the gun from the top shelf and I brought it to school with me."

Lassiter can feel himself getting upset. He feels the hot in his ears and the lump in his throat. He swallows hard though and forces himself to continue.

"If Chief Thompson hadn't come down to the school that day to speak about the police force, I honestly don't know if I would or wouldn't have gone through with it."

"Chief Thompson? Who's that?"

Chief Thompson was a big black guy with a hearty laugh and big hands. That's how Lassiter first remembers him back when he first met him. He was thirteen then, a little boy sniveling in the corner, a brother and sister under his arms and a house phone held tight in his hand. The house had been broken into that night and of course, young Carlton did the only thing he could do and called the police. Chief Thompson wasn't a chief yet then but would be four years later. But that man, that police officer helped them and told Lassiter that if he ever needed help to call him. He'd considered him a friend ever since and sometimes, on a rare Saturday when both sister and brother went to see friends and mother was working, Lassiter would go down to the police station and Thompson would let the boy sit in the corner quietly reading his history books.

Only on that day, that Tuesday in Spring, Lassiter sweated over the gun hiding in his backpack, quietly leaning up against his faithful copy of "American Heritage: Picture History of the Civil War." His sweating worsened as his class was ushered into the gym and there standing on the floor was Chief Thompson. A cop. A cop he knew and was friends with. And now everything felt like a bad joke, like God was making fun of him for even thinking about putting one of those mud slinging, scum of Earth clowns down. He was going to have to just put the gun back, put it far far away in the furthest reaches of his mother's closet and hope and pray he never remembered it.

Not that he didn't admit it to Cheif Thompson later that day, when they were sitting in his office and the kind cop offered him half of his sandwhich. The younger siblings were out at a kid's party and Mother was of course seeing Carolyn again. Lassiter just up and spilled the beans about all of it to the chief, not actually mentioning that he'd brought a gun to school but everything behind that action; how Lassiter's mom was a lesbian and hardly ever around, how Billy had died and no one even bothered to tell him, how the kids at school were making fun of him and his family on a day to day basis, and how soon he'd have to get a real job, not just being a stock a boy two or three nights a week and how everything was terrifying and the world was too small and Lassiter just wanted it to stop.

That's when Chief Thompson did something completely illegal. He reached into his lowest cabinet, pulled out two glasses and a bottle of whiskey and said that it was times like these that men would drink and Lassiter was on his way to becoming a man so he should have at least a drink. And that became Carlton's best friend. It was the only reason he ever crashed parties or spoke to anyone, to get more booze to numb that pain. The Chief wouldn't know it until later that he'd given the young man an addiction to cling to, not until that fateful early morning when the chief snuck the younger boy out from an early graduation party the cops had busted, gave him a stern reprimand and then suggested he turn his life around and join the force.

"Do you remember anything that happened that night?" Dr. Strauss asks, having very carefully listened to Lassiter's entire admission.

"I remember showing up," he answers, "making a bee line for a six pack and then sitting up in one of the bedrooms all by myself."

Hot. Wet tongue. Roaming hands. Just flashes of heat and skin bombard the cop. He winces, willing it to go away.

"Is something wrong, Carlton?" the doctor asks.

"I- I'm just thinking about something," he asnwers, "something that won't go away."

"Tell me about it," she urges him, "what is it that you're seeing?"

And this is it again. A second chance to talk about it, that dream that attempts being a memory. It might be the last chance. And maybe it is a memory, if it is then the doctor can tell him what to do with it, how to be. It's plagued him this long why give it another day?

"Close your eyes, Carlton," her voice is like honey, calming and warm, "close your eyes and see yourself in the room. Focus on what you're seeing."

"It's- it's a guest bedroom. The closet is open and empty and the bed is made so tight I can bounce a quater off of it. The comforter has too many flowers on it and the end table's... dusty."

The sound of the doctor shifting her sitting position is distant as well as the vague scratch of pen on paper. Lassiter can feel himself in his moment, feel himself letting it in and rising all around him.

"That's good, now what are you doing in the room?"

"Drinking of course,"

The beer is salty and cheap and the burn is piss poor even on the fourth one going down. Carlton picks up the lamp off the end table, laughs at the pale white of it's shade before unplugging it all together. In the darkness he crawls further into he king sized bed, makes himself comfortable as he pops open a fifth beer and eyes the last of the pack greedily. He hopes he'll get alcohol poisoning, hopes he'll just vomit in his sleep and drown in it. Anything is better than waking up to the hangover he's sure to have or worse, the life that'll still be his come tomorrow morning. The loud music coming from downstairs fills the floorboards with a dull rhythym and Carlton thinks to himself that maybe that's the sound of the calvary. Maybe at long last all those glorious generals will come striding into the room and they'll pick him up and make him one of their brothers and then together, they can fight side by side for something real, for something that matters. Something bigger than themselves.

This fantasy is interrupted thought as the door opens and blinding light cascades in. The drunken teen throws an arm over his eyes.

"This room is taken, fuck off!" he shouts.

The door closes and he thinks he's alone at first but he can hear panicked breathing. It's singular though, so it's not a hot and heavy couple here to ruin his good time. He lets his arm fall off of his face and sits up to try and better see his intruder. It's a younger guy, maybe a freshman judging by the sillhoutte.

"What are you doing here?" Carlton practically slurs.

"I'm not- interrupting anything am I?" the boy asks, his gaze digging in the dark for the obscene.

This makes the older boy laugh. Like he could get laid. That's a fucking joke right there.

"Hardly," he answers before deciding to sit up.

"I'll be out of your hair in a minute, I swear," the trespasser promises, "I just needed a second to breathe."

"Party too much for you?" Carlton laughs again and gives the bed a pat, "Come sit, you're weirding me out against the door like that."

The shadowed boy follows suit and it's awkward as he sits there. The dark is quiet around them, almost too quiet to bear. So Carlton grabs his last beer, uses his canine tooth to pop the lid and holds it out to the younger boy.

"You drink?" he asks.

"Psh- yeah, all the time," the other boy responds, his alcoholic virignity shining through as he grabs the bottle with shaky hands.

"You don't have to lie, kid," the beer veteran playfully pushes his shoulder against the younger boy's, "it's okay for there to be a first for everything."

Calrton watches with almost a sense of pride as the other boy stares at the dark colored bottle and then downs most of it quickly. He re-emerges form the lip of the bottles coughing and gagging a bit from the taste. This earns yet another chuckle form Carlton, who never remembered laughing so much in one night. He looks to the disgusted boy and holds out the red topped bottle cap in his palm to him.

"Here," he says as the other boy takes the cap, "think of it as a souvenir of your first beer."

Carlton listens to the shuffling as the other guy stuffs the bottle cap into his pocket. Then there's just more quiet and Lassiter's down to half a beer. The other boy keeps drinking his and it makes Carlton a little happy to know that for the first time since Chief Thompson, he's not drinking alone.

"So, what brings you to this party anyway? You're not a senoir, there's no way you should be here."

"You don't know that, I could be a senior."

"I just watched you choke down your first beer, kid, there's no way in hell you're more than a sophomore."

"Fine, I'm a freshman," he admits before swigging another drink.

"So why are you here?"

"Just thought it'd be fun. I'm a fun guy. I like danger. I thought, why not?"

There's an upbeat sarcasm about his voice. He sounds like he tries to hard too be but is in fact that cool. Carlton immediately envies that. He wishes he could sound just remotely cool. Might help his case a lot considering he is in fact one of the biggest losers in school, in town, in the world. It'd be nice if he delude himself, even a little.

"Thought there might be some - uh- ladies too, y'know?"

"Like a little shit like you could get a girl," Carlton says finishing the last of his liquid everything, "I've got four years on you, at least, and I've never even kissed anyone."

Carlton feels a steady rise of panic as he realizes what he's admitted but then he calms down. He admitted it to a freshman squirt. There isn't any danger in that. What is he going to do? Tell his friends? Who would believe him? Or care? And on top of that Carlton's graduating next week anyway and then he'll be long gone in...in where exactly?

"Y- you've never kissed anyone?" the other guy asks, "Ever?"

"Nope," Carlton responds, "but honestly what's the point? It's not like I really have a chance with anyone. All I do is drink and read books and think about stuff like what happens when we die."

There's more silence. Carlton doesn't understand why he's telling this boy these things. Maybe it's because he'll never see him again or maybe because he's too drunk to care. It feels good though, to say it out loud. He doesn't even mind if the listening boy is really listening or not. It's just nice to say.

"I think about that kind of stuff too," the other boy says quietly, "and I've never had a drink before right now but I do read. My dad makes me read but sometimes- I actually like to. I would just never tell him that."

"What's that like?"

"Not telling him?"

"No. Having a dad."

More quiet and now Carlton can see the pale lines of moonlight streaking in from the blinds. He wonders to himself where his dad is right now, what's he doing, what is he like? Is he off with some woman who isn't a lesbian? Does he have a son that doesn't act like a socially awkward bookworm? Or is his dad dead somewhere in a ditch with no one to claim him?

"You should be happy, kid," Carlton says, "be happy to have a dad whether you can tell him you like reading or not. It's more than I ever had."

"I-I'm sorry," the boy says and Carlton is surprised when a lean arm finds its way across his shoulders.

Carlton then just leans into that slight embrace and there's not enough sobriety in him to stop him from crying into this freshman's shoulder. Carlton hasn't cried to anyone since he was first left at Old Sonora and Billy had found him and cheered him up with icecream and soda. So Carlton cries, clinging onto the shirt of this other boy like it's his last chance for anything.

"I keep trying!" the sobbing boy shouts into a tear stained shoulder, "I keep trying to tell myself that this is worth it but it's not! I don't even know what I'm alive for! I don't know what I'm going to do after high school, I don't know who's going to take care of my brother and my sister, Billy's dead, I don't know who the fuck my dad even is, and if Thompson saw me right now he'd be so disappointed!"

It's almost shocking that the younger boy's other arm comes around him. Those shaky, almost frail arms that are holding him bring Carlton closer in and Calrton can feel this younger boy's long hair tickling his ear.

"Nobody else is like me," Carlton says, coming up for air from the shoulder and putting distance between them, "Nobody sees the world like I do. I'm alone. I'm a geek and freak. I'm never even kissed anyone...and who would want to?"

"...I- I would."

Carlton narrows his eyes. Even in the dark he can see that the younger boy is staring straight down at the floor. He's not even sure he heard him correctly but suddenly the lingering arm on his back makes him feel uncomfortable.

"What?"

"It's just a kiss, right? Not a big deal. And we'll just keep it between us, like it never happened."

Carlton blinks and then squints harder. He's trying to tell if the guy in front of him is a total fag. He doesn't sound like a fag, doesn't much look like one either but it's hard to tell in the dark. He's too drunk to plug the lamp back in and way too drunk to get up and turn on the light switch.

"You gave me my first beer, why don't I give you your first- y'know," he offers again.

"...okay..."

Carlton isn't sure why he's agreed to this. Surely something in his brain should be firing off warning signals, big bright fireworks of 'hey, this is really gay' but his mind stays relatively quiet even as the other boy leans in closer to him. The only thing that changes is that Carlton's heart starts to flutter when the strange boy puts a hand on his face and then guides Carlton into a kiss.

And from that very second, it's instant electricity. The current rides both of them, taking them by surprise and it's almost supernatural how their hands gravitate and pull themselve into each other's hair, glide across back and shoulders. Nothing matters in this world. Nothing but the other boy kissing him. Everything around them just melts away and suddenly Carlton understands why it's worth it, he knows what to live for. This boy doesn't know what he's doing either, or he's just that nervous but nonehtless he presses weight against Carlton and the two of them end up on the bed, tugging at clothes as Carlton starts kissing at the exposed collar bone. The younger boy removes his own t-shirt with haste and starts working on Carlton's shirt buttons. Neither have any idea what's going on but they can't stop it. They press naked chests together as they continue to kiss and nip each other, mimicking everything they saw in movies and trying to put into action what they've heard in words.

Then there's lights coming in throught the window, red and blue lights. And over the steady hum of music and the sound of body against body are blaring sirens. The younger boy falls off the bed as he shoots up straight. He scrambles to grab his discarded t-shirt and mutters to himself about how his dad is going to kill him. He then looks back to Carlton, still in a stupor and tugs on his hand.

"C'mon, we've got to make a run for it," the panicking boy says.

Carlton shakes his head.

"You run, I'll just slow you down."

"But-"

"Go," he says, waving a dismissive hand.

The other boy runs toward the door, but he stands in it, looking back at Carlton. Carlton wishes he didn't feel so sleepy. He wishes he had it in him to get up just a little more, just to see his face.

"Hey, guy?" the other boy says, "..that wasn't so bad, was it?"

Carlton shakes his head and smiles more to himself and his drunken atmosphere than anyone else.

"No, I might just do it again sometime."

Carlton likes to think that the other boy smiled then. He can't be sure though because the booze is already knocking him out and it drags him further and further down into the dark. He won't wake up until later when he's sitting in Chief Thompson's office and he won't remember anything about last night. That is until he sits in a therapists office and she asks him to close his eyes. Until right now.


	4. A Sub and a Surprise

Lassiter looks around the police department with heavy eyes. It's mostly abandoned, with just a few stray men in uniform sipping at coffee and keeping close to quiet phones. He sighs and feels his stomach grumble.

Going to see Dr. Strauss ended up turning up more things than Lassiter though it would but he has to admit that it is making life better for him. He's worked out his lingering resentment for his mother, has fully accepted that he didn't have a father, as well as realizing that he doesn't need to push so hard to be this archetypal, red blooded Republican American. Not that he isn't a fairly partiotic and right winged citizen of the greatest country on God's green Earth but that's not all that he is either. The cop just wishes that all these revelations would slow down enough to let him sleep or at least get his paperwork done. Too often does he find himself straying in his mind and when he comes back, he's already wasted three hours staring at a blank computer screen.

He still can't get the memory out of his head. Dr. Strauss explained to him time and time again that experimentation is fairly common in people but that doesn't stop Lassiter from obsessing. If anything, the realization that his reoccuring nightmare is a memory has made things worse. He relives it, often, not in his dreams anymore but in passing moments during the day. He sees and feels flashes of heat and skin. Lassiter has always wondered who in the world would love him, who? And that boy's voice curls around his ear and whispers _'I- I would.'_

Lassiter jumps a bit as a plastic sack is dropped on his desk. Beyond the bag is one Shawn Spencer standing triumphantly before him, wearing that damn grin as always.

"Evening, Lassiecakes," Shawn says as he grabs the office chair in the corner and drags it up to the desk.

"Spencer," the cop grumbles, "what are you doing here?"

Lassiter has grown more accustomed to being around the fake psychic, well as accustomed to it as he ever was. Nonetheless, he still doesn't want to be buddy buddy with him and that doesn't seem to hit the persistent man. Sure enough, Shawn comes around like clock work, always around Lassiter's lunch hour and tries to persuade the man to come eat with him. He even went so far as to ask Lassiter to see the new Die Hard movie and Lassiter's not sure but he thinks the offer might have made him a little sick in his own mouth.

Shawn gestures to the bag and Lassiter, though with slight hesitance, inspects it. From the inside, the aroma of a steaming meatball sub comes swirling up and practically kisses him on the nose. His stomach grumbles once more and even louder than before, signaling that it is damn well aware that there is a delicious sub in it's presence and that Lassiter better eat it. Or else.

"And you are welcome, sassy Lassie," Shawn says as he kicks back in his chair and rest his locked fingers behind his head.

The detective grumbles some more, one such grumble sounding suspicously like 'thank you'. However there's just a relative quiet as Lassiter digs into his sandwhich. It's delicious, more delcious than any sandwhich before it and Lassiter tries to think of the last time he actually ate something but for some reason all he can remember over the last few days is coffee, coffee and more coffee. Oh, and a donut which makes him chuckle inwardly if not a bit bitterly.

"Really though," Lassiter says deciding to take a break from his much needed meal to breathe, "what are you doing here?"

"Other than being ridiculously kind and feeding you?"

Lassiter gives a nod and it's almost sheepish. The other man smiles at him and leans a little on the desk. His scent seems to cut right through that of the wafting sandwhich and Lassiter inadvertantly breathes in faint cologne and pineapples. Not that Lassiter doesn't know what Shawn smells like, plently of awkward close moments (such as the showgirl bit or that one time when Lassiter grabbed a running Shawn in the back kitchen, choosing to envoke the 'by any means necessary' clause he was given) but the smell of the other man never ceases to grab his attention. Pineapple, it's such a quirky smell, tangy and sort of sweet. Makes him think of Hawaii, not that he's ever been there.

"I keep telling you," Shawn says, "I just want you and I to spend a little time together."

"Why?"

Shawn leans back and Lassiter's almost grateful for it. He lets out a small, barely audible sigh of relief. For a second there, he was begining to think Shawn smelled like paradise.

"Look at this way, Lassie," the quirky man answers, "you're not going to wake up some morning and decide you don't want to be a cop-"

"Of course not."

"-and I'm not going to quit being a well paid psychic consultant any time soon either. So why don't we let our differences settle and try, maybe, getting along?"

It makes sense which furthers Lassiter's irritation with the proposal. It's not that Shawn's a bad guy and there are days that Lassiter thinks that maybe, a very soft maybe, if they'd met under different circumstances, he may have liked him. Not that he doesn't like him, and not to say that he does...Shawn's just a complicated relationship. Nonetheless, the younger man seems genuine and logical, two things Lassiter never knew him to be, and it makes him curious again the way he was when Shawn had first taken him out to Chinese. And though the stubborn cop won't admit it, he does feel a little obligated to try...he did after all, punch the younger man square in the face for no reason.

"All right, Spencer," Lassiter agrees.

"See? Now why do you have to shoot me down all the time? I truly and deeply want us to- oh, wait, you said yes."

The cop rolls his eyes and shifts his attention back to his computer for a second. He still has to write his report about the case over the last weekend, wherein Shawn once again valiantly deduced every answer and Lassiter got to stand there in the background. That still isn't going to be any less annoying than it has been but maybe he can grow to hate Shawn less for that. Maybe.

"Cool," Shawn says, getting up, "Oh, and Lassie, you got a little something on your face-"

Before Lassiter can even realize that he should stop him, Shawn reaches over and swipes his thumb across the cop's cheek. The other man is leaning over the desk, the light smoke of paradise wafting off of him. Lassiter watches half awestruck and half in terror as Shawn examines his thumb.

"Just marinara," Shawn notes casually.

And then he brings his thumb up to his lips. And he licks the marinara sauce off his thumb. Just does it like it's nothing but Lassiter stares at the action like it's the most bizzare thing in the world. That sauce was on his face, on his damn identity, and Shawn just laps it up like it's no big deal. He might as well have leaned over and just licked it off the cop's face. That idea sends a shiver up and down Lassiter's back and he's still silent and staring as Shawn starts to make his leave.

"Well, Lassiecakes," he says, "have fun with your reports and stuff, I'm off to see a pharmacist about hidden circus monkey in the attic which-" Shawn pulls out his ringing phone, "said pharmacist has just discovered. Tata for now, Lassie!"

Lassiter doesn't question what Shawn is doing with a circus monkey let alone even say goodbye. Instead he sits there, staring straight ahead as the image of Shawn licking his thumb replays in his head. And he can't eat his sandwhich. And he can't do his paperwork. He can't even register the awkward erection growing in his pants. All he sees it that pink, wet tongue gliding over skin in slow motion and it isn't for another ten minutes that he comes to and realizes that he and Dr. Strauss are going to have one sordid conversation come next session.

**A/N: I'm pretty sure "Lassiecakes" is my official favorite nickname for Lassiter. Sorry this one's so short but I really didn't feel like enlongating this scene. Still more to come, kiddos. ;)**


	5. A Breakthrough

**A/N: And the sky opened up and the sun said "MAOR". :D**

"Carlton," Dr. Strauss says, her voice restraining a sigh,"we've discussed this multiple times now. You participated in some experimentation as a teenager but that does not mean you have to obsess over it. You can forgive yourself for something so natural."

She's wearing a sky blue top with a scoop neck, showing a tasteful amount of cleavage. Her neck is decorated with a string of small pearls that contrast against the not too distant lapels of her black blazer. She looks a little more professional than usual today and Lassiter almost wants to ask her why but instead he stares at her shoes, a pair of shiny black heels. She's a pretty woman, curvy and kind and exceedingly intelligent. He'd ask her out if it weren't so terribly inappropriate.

"Your fixation on this one moment is very damaging, unless it has any present relation to the here and now, you should let it go."

Fixation and dwelling are both under statements. Lassiter actually went to his mother's house, battled out an awkward conversation, and dug through the attic until he found his high school year book. To this day he still isn't sure why he went to the trouble of buying it but he figures it was probably so he'd look at it later in life and remember to add certain names to his crap list. Nonetheless, he flips through the pages, and finds himself studying every face and name of every single freshmen. He singled out every hippie haired, scrawny son of bitch and then just stared, stared at them until he got an answer and that answer was Jeremy Cummings.

Jeremy was indeed a freshmen, had the just about the right shade of hair (Lassiter even turned off the lights and stared at the picture for an hour in the dark to be sure), and he had this sort of smile that went with the voice Lassiter remembered, a sort of sarcastic suave sounding nuance. Lassiter doesn't understand why he needed to know who the boy from his memory was and more importantly he doesn't know why he needed to know who Jeremy is now.

Jeremy Cummings, as Lassiter had learned the other night, isn't anybody anymore. Jeremy and his family had moved a few towns over during high school and when he was nineteen, he'd tried coming out to his parents and his dad got up, went to the back room, brought back a gun and shot his son point blank, right between the eyes. Lassiter informs Dr. Strauss of all this and she gets very quiet for a moment before deciding to speak and as always she asks a question.

"...and why do you think you needed to pursue this information?"

"I don't know that's why I'm asking you," Lassiter responds, "I'm not even sure how I should feel about knowing that."

"How do you think you feel?"

Lassiter shrugs, his shoulders jolting up. His posture's awkward, him leaning over with his elbows on his knees and his head down. He hates that question some days. He just said he doesn't know so what would asking what he _thinks_ he knows do? Nonetheless the cop ponders it anyway and resurfaces with an answer.

"It's a very tragic event," Lassiter responds, "so naturally I feel a little sad."

And guilty. What if that kiss Lassiter and the freshmen had was the kiss that sealed the younger boy's fate? Maybe if Lassiter had said no all those years ago then maybe Jeremy would have thought himself straight. Maybe they could have been friends and maybe they would have stayed friends. It just felt wrong, wrong for Jeremy to be dead, for Lassiter to never have met him properly and worse, that he never got the chance to be in that charming and kind boy's life.

Dr. Strauss studies Lassiter carefully. She notes every move the cop makes, every time he goes quiet or winces or casts his gaze to the floor. It speaks volumes on it's own, his body that is, and the detective doesn't even know. So as Dr. Strauss watches the way Lassiter stares at his hands, a sort of forlorn look in those iced blues.

"Carlton," she says softly, "I want you to be open minded and not to get upset but do you think it's possible that you had feelings for Jeremy?"

"What are you going on about?" Carlton asks, his voice threateningly low.

She looks back at him, not intimidated in the least. She still has that wholesome glow about her, that deep want to help in her aura so strong that it permeates the air. She's much more than a simple psychologist. She's genuine and she sits there unafraid and unbiased as she continues to ask those damn questions of her's.

"How did that night make you feel at the time? If you could describe it one word."

The conflicted cop unwillingly subjects himself to the memory once more. He can feel that other boy's t-shirt in his fingers, can feel tears down his face and then those arms, those thin arms coming around him and it feels good. It feels so unnaturally good and right and Lassiter can swear he wants to stay there forever.

"...accepted," he answers quietly.

"When did you feel that?"

"When he was holding me," Lassiter says, his voice creaking from its own depth.

"And when he kissed you, how did that feel?"

How did it feel? How did it _feel_? How is he even supposed to describe that? It felt...it felt like firing a gun in slow motion. He knew that everything was happening fast and yet he can precisely break it down moment by moment. Those hands on his face, cocking the gun. Lips against lips, pulling the trigger. Tongue against tongue, the mechanical clicks of the bullet within the gun. Hands on bodies, the swirling smoke hiding in the barrel. It was fucking beautiful. It was everything.

"...what does it matter? He's dead anyway."

"Carlton, that's answering the question."

"Well I don't know how to!" he yells, then realizes it and calms down, "...Jeremy, made me feel something, I can admit to that."

"Then your obsession with that memory makes sense," the doctor comments.

She gets up and goes to her desk for a moment and pulls out a bottle of water and a couple of plastic cups from one of the drawers. Lassiter blinks and he swears his mind just saw Chief Thompson with the whiskey again but he shakes it off. He hasn't been sleeping right but Dr. Strauss knows that.

"Water?" she asks and the cop shakes his head. She shrugs and returns the second cup to its domain before pouring herself a drink.

She's never done this before and Lassiter sees something shift in her. There's a sort of relief about her. Which begs the question, how longs has she been on edge and why? Lassiter wonders how many people wonder about their psychologists. Do the doctors get antsy because they're concerned or because they're waiting for you to realize what they already know?

"There's something I want you to try," she says after taking a sip, "I want you to find where Jeremy is buried and I want you to say goodbye to him."

"I don't think-"

"Just listen, Carlton, hear me out. What you lack is closure on this part of your life, now we've worked through your issues with your mother, we've talked about your father, and school and Billy and even Chief Thompson had his day. But Jeremy deserves a day too, don't you think?"

She's right. She's absolutely right on all accounts. Maybe saying goodbye is what Lassiter needs. He's come this far, realizing his dream was a reality, then going on to find out who Jeremy was and what happened to him. And none that made his fixation stop so what other course of action did he have? He nods his slowly and Dr. Strauss offers a comforting smile.

**A/N: Again, these are not the longest of chapters but I'm really enjoying writing them and I hope you guys enjoy reading them. :)**


	6. Saying Goodbye

**A/N: I swear this thing is taking on a life of it's own.**

Lassiter takes deep breaths as he strides across cut green grass. In and out, through his nose he breathes as each step feels heavier. He's got a rose in his hand and it smells too sweet and it looks too red. He whispers something about all of being a load of malarkey and that's when he sees it; a headstone clearing reading 'Jeremy Cummings' and suddenly this doesn't feel so stupid anymore.

The cemetery is relatively quiet, with just the distant cars on the main roads humming in the background. He's glad that cemeteries aren't at all like the ones in horror movies. They seem clean and well kept, almost like a garden. There's a lot of green, just rolling hills of bright jade running into one another. In them, pristine white tombstones stick out like hodgepodge boards from some odd picket fence. And there are flowers here, little bouquets of tulips and carnations smattering dabs of color onto the landscape. Lassiter takes some comfort in that Jeremy's parents at least loved him enough to bury him in a nice place.

Awkwardly, the tall cop bends at the knee and puts his single rose onto the grave. He tilts it just so and stands back up. He then puts his hands in his pockets, takes them out of his pockets, rests them on his hips and then puts them back in his pockets. He looks to his left and then to his right but there's nobody but him. Then again, how many people went to visit their passed away love ones on a Wednesday at noon? Considering the lack of visitor's, nobody and Lassiter wonders for a moment if visiting Jeremy on his lunch break is disrespectful.

"Look," Lassiter says aloud, "I know that you're- dead and that means you can't hear me but Dr. Strauss insists that this is necessary so I'm going to pretend that you can."

He has the sudden urge to sit down but there's nothing with which to do that with so he stays standing, feeling even more uncomfortable and keeping a perfectly militant posture. He takes a deep breath and it comes out as a sort of agitated sigh.

"I don't know what it is about you that makes me feel like this," he admits, "I can't tell if I feel sad for you or if I feel guilty or-"

The wind picks up a bit, ruffles the petals on the flower and makes the back of Lassiter dark blazer shiver. He wore a black suit but not on purpose. Only in hindsight does the zombie like routine of his morning make some sense. Somewhere his mind had told him to wear black but he neither disagreed nor agreed with that sentiment. He just went through the motions as usual and only now does he notice his color of mourning.

"I think I missed out on you," the cop says quietly, "I know we didn't exactly know each other but you were funny and interesting and there was something that I instinctively liked about you. I think we would have been very good friends... maybe even more than friends but that is highly debatable. Just because you turned out gay does not mean that I would have done the same thing."

He leans in a little closer, his head staring straight down at his too shiny shoes against the bright green. Yes, this is place is pretty to look at but that doesn't make it any better. Making it look beautiful doesn't make it any less real. Jeremy is dead. He's gone. He's not coming back not now or ever. He'll never be able to answer Lassiter's questions or be whoever he was supposed to be. He'll never get to have sex or get married or have a real job. He didn't even get to really grow up and the thought of that breaks the cop's heart.

"Why did it you do it? Why did you kiss me the way you did all those years ago? I didn't ask you to. I never said I wanted you to but you did it anyway. And I'll never get to know why. And I'll never get to know who you would have been and I'll never be a part of your life again and I don't know if I can forgive you for that."

His foot grinds into the rose before he even realizes it and when he sees the red petals splayed out under the toe of his Bostonians it just makes him angrier. He crushes the crimson flower with a deliberateness and wishes he could do more. He wants to break the tombstone, cracks it right in half and keep breaking into pieces until it's just a pile of ashes. But he stands there, listening to the sound of hard sole pushing into dirt as he tries to ignore the hot tears rolling down his cheeks.

There's a shuffling sound behind him and the cop whips around quickly to see Shawn Spencer standing there, a caught expression on his face as he freezes.

"What are you doing here?" Lassiter growls lowly.

The intruder puts his hands up, trying to signal a vulnerable surrender but it just irritates Lassiter. The cop doesn't even bother to wipe off the tear streaks on his face, he just stands, feet apart and waiting for Shawn to give him one more reason to put the younger man in a hospital.

"I just happened to be in the neighborhood and-"

"That is a crock of crap," the other man barely restrains himself, "now why are you here, how long have you been listening?"

Shawn sighs and there's something oddly sincere in the way he moves. The shirt tails of his plaid button up sway subtly. He has his hands hidden in denim pockets and he looks down, trying to think of what to say. Lassiter can tell he's debating a lie and that alone makes the detective want to tackle the other man and beat him to pulp.

"I came in around 'I think I missed out on you'" Shawn admits, "but I didn't think I'd be walking into that."

"You shut your mouth Spencer," Lassiter says, taking the latter half of the fake psychic's expression as a cheeky joke.

"Hey now," he says, once again resuming those lifted hands, one foot slightly back as if prepping to run away, "I didn't mean it like that. I was honestly caught by surprise."

"Well it wasn't meant to surprise you!" the cop calms and finally brings a begrudging knuckle to his cheeks and wipes his face clean, "What are you doing here anyway?"

They'd hung out a few times, Lassiter being good on his word to try and Shawn being too relentless to say no to. They tried eating out again, Shawn really seems to like feeding the poor man all sorts of colorful cuisine ranging from Mexican to Thai. The cop even subjected himself to a round of mini golf. On the other hand, Lassiter was getting Shawn to read some of his old Civil War books and while the little shit could just not let go of the facial hair worn back in the day, he did retain a lot of information and even geeked out a little over General Porter Alexander. He swore up and down that he was going to learn to communicate via flag signals and Lassiter almost thought it a charming notion. Almost.

Every time though, Lassiter finds himself liking Shawn more and more and seeking that man child's approval. They even laughed at jokes together, made fun McNab a bit, and Lassiter earned himself another high five from Shawn (another proud, shining moment in their history). Sure, the little pest still bothered him and aimed to get his goat now and then but it neared endearing and while that makes Lassiter feel extremely conflicted, he can't stop it either, this liking of Shawn.

It's strange (and mildly irritating) for the cop to realize that Shawn was right to push them to spend time together. But it's getting to be dangerous too. Just last night, Lassiter was lying in bed holding a pillow to his chest and found himself thinking about something Shawn had said. He broke out into a full smile, even chuckled a little to himself and it was such a sudden break in his own monotonous routine that he didn't even realize it at first. When it hit him, that he was cuddling a pillow and thinking about how funny Shawn was, he nearly threw that pillow across the room he was so desperate to get away from it. But no matter how much he told himself he wasn't going to hang out with him again, he did it anyway.

However, all this progress is threatened now as Shawn stands before him having heard secrets he isn't meant to know. Lassiter keeps a solemn scowl and waits for Shawn to make a joke, to make a stupid observation, to just generally just fuck it up somehow and in a way he wants him to.

"...you want to get of here? I make a mean pineapple shake," Shawn offers.

But he doesn't fuck it up and other than the bit about a pineapple shake he makes the perfect move. This cannot be happening, he is not allowed to be this good of a person. But he is even as Lassiter walks past him. Shawn even puts a hand on the other man's shoulder and it's enough to make Lassiter want to break his fingers but he lets that kind hand stay where it's planted. Lassiter doesn't care about his car and wordlessly Shawn hands him the spare helmet on his bike. Lassiter glares at it a little but puts it on and doesn't bother to bitch or moan as he sits behind Shawn and wraps his arms tight around him that it is until Shawn pulls into the station parking lot.

"Spencer, why did you bring me back here?" he asks through gritted teeth.

"Calm down, Lassie," he says with authority, "you just sit tight and let me work my magic."

"What are you-"

"Shhh, I've got you covered," he says as he pats Lassiter's hands, still woven tight and holding to the other man.

Lassiter almost immediately breaks his grip upon contact and Shawn more or less takes a running start toward the building. Lassiter is left there, still wearing that stupid helmet and kind of staring after his unwanted hero as he bounds past the doors.

The cop cannot wrap his mind around what Shawn is doing let alone why. None of this is making sense so far but maybe the strict detective doesn't want to make sense for once. The point is that he's far away from that grave site. He's miles from anything to do with Jeremy and high school and if Shawn is good for anything it's distraction. Lassiter adjusts his tie and warily checks around for passerby's from work. The last thing he wants is for anyone to recognize him and spread it around the station that he was seen sitting on Shawn's motorcycle.

Luckily his pest-to-the-rescue comes bouncing out of the building. Whatever he did, it didn't take long and he looks confident as he puts his helmet back on which beckons a sort of annoyed nausea to Lassiter's stomach.

"What did you do?"

"Just made it so you don't have to go back to work today," Shawn says as he takes a seat back on his back, "so you're welcome."

"Spencer, what in God's name did you say to-"

Lassiter doesn't get to finish his question because Shawn revs up the bike and start driving fast. With his heart racing, the surprised detective throws his arms around the driver in a panic, holding much tighter than he needs to.

"I'm going to murder you or that!" Lassiter shouts into Shawn's ear.

"Sorry, Lassiecakes! I can't hear you over the sound of my awesome!"

He drives too fast. Much too fast and Lassiter debates scribbling out a ticket for him somehow and just sticking it to the speed demon's forehead. That wouldn't make any difference though. Shawn Spencer apparently drives in the same fashion that he lives his life; at full speed. It makes the conservative cop feel uncomfortable and at the same time...a little excited.

Shawn pulls up into a small parking space in front of an apartment complex. He parks the bike and this time Lassiter is quick to release his grip, learning from last time. He sits on the bike though, staring at the tan colored building in front of him.

"This is your apartment isn't? You brought me back to your apartment?" he asks, a harsh tone edging his voice.

Nonetheless he gets off the bike and is behind Shawn, ready to follow. Shawn just leads on, rambling about all sorts of stupid 'house rules' that he has. There's something about popular eighties music and no one allowed to go into the hall closet but Lassiter doesn't bother to listen. He just follows Shawn up the stairs and into the apartment dutifully all the meanwhile wondering what he is getting himself into.

"Well, Lassie," the hospitable nuisance says as he digs through his pocket for his house key, which for whatever reason he kept separate from his the key to his bike, "mi casa es su- oh no no no!"

Something falls out of Shawn's pocket and starts rolling down the skinny cement steps. It has a metallic sound as it bounces it's way down and the panicking man shoves Lassiter aside as he chases the item.

"Spencer!" Lassiter asks, grabbing onto the railing to avoid falling backwards, "What is your problem!"

In no time flat Shawn is on the ground floor, digging around in the dirt of some scenic little shrubbery. He's movements jerk, his elbows swinging as he sifts through the falsely placed foliage for his possession.

"Spencer!" Lassiter shouts again.

"Aha!" he shouts, holding up the tiny item still too small for Lassiter to identify, "No need to panic everyone! I've managed to save the day once again!"

Shawn comes back up the stairs, his face a mix of triumph and relief. Lassiter just eyes him, slightly awed by the man's idiocy. This is a bad idea, all of it. Getting on that bike was a bad idea. Letting Shawn go into the station alone was a bad idea. Letting the little shit take him to wherever was a bad idea. Just Shawn in general is a bad idea. This man is just bound to frustrate the cop to no end and considering the day he's had, it's going to lead to problems.

"What was that all about?" he asks, not really caring for an answer.

Shawn holds up his prize between two fingers. It's metallic, red painted on the top, rusted, and Lassiter's heart free falls into his stomach as he stares at it and it worsens as Shawn smiles affectionately at it and responds to the distressed cop;

"It's my lucky bottle cap."

**A/N: See what I mean? You know, even **_**I**_** don't what the fuck is going to happen until it happens. But there it is. Feel free to theorize the night away. And no, I won't leave you with this cliff hanger. XD More to come soon! **


	7. The Bottle Cap

**A/N: Right then, some reviews to address first.**

**SJColton, your bit about your glasses made me giggle. XD Have an internet biscuit!**

**Severitis, 'tis an honor that my fic has converted you. Welcome to the fandom! You came at a great time as the writers are being very generous to us this season but I'll let you catch up. ;)**

**Now let us go forth and enjoy much story time! :D**

The minute the door is open, Lassiter has his hand on Shawn's shirt collar. He shoves him inside of the apartment and slams the door behind him.

"Woah! Woah!" Shawn panicks at the sudden iron grip on him.

"Where did you get that?" the cop asks, his voice low and humming behind clenched teeth.

The younger man looks at the angry detective with a helplessness.

"Get what?"

"The bottle cap, Spencer! Where did you get it?"

There's a fire in his blue eyes, burning hotter than any anger that Shawn's ever seen and it's terrifying. The fake psychic knew that Lassie could make a criminal tremble now and then but this is truly horrifying. He looks ready to beat him for answers and Shawn isn't even sure why. This doesn't deter the cop though and he keeps the studious fury on his face without the slightest hesitation.

"I-it's just a bottle cap, Lassie-"

"You said it was lucky. Why?"

Shawn hesitates for a second and it's obvious. His eyes wander for a minute and his signature eyebrow is hiked up and in place for thought. Lassiter is impatient though and pulls Shawn closer to him. They're nose to nose and the cop's gaze barrels down on the younger man's eyes. That quirky scent of Shawn's tries to wrap itself around Lassiter but he ignores it completely. He wants answers and he'll get them by any means necessary.

Shawn sighs, seeing the unforgiving resolution in the cop's face and despite not knowing the circumstances, he decides to give in.

"It was just this guy I was friends with for a while in high school. He gave it to me before he moved!"

"What was his name?"

"Why does it matter?!"

Lassiter can feel his heart in his chest, its usually steady pace sky rocketing in his ribs. He doesn't know why it matters but it does and what's worse is that at this moment it's the only thing that matters.

"What was his name, Spencer!"

"Jeremy!" Shawn shouts, "Okay? It was Jeremy!"

Lassiter lets go of Shawn and his face is in a state of shock. Quietly, he sombers over to the couch and he doesn't even register the small piles of clutter on the floor. His mind ignores strewn across shoes and discarded bouts of laundry. He sits down, resting his elbows on his knees as he stares into a empty bowl, stares at the tortilla chip crumbs at the bottom, and lets everything sink in.

Shawn waits at a safe distance and Lassiter can hear him breathing in to speak.

"I didn't think you'd want to know that, Lassie," Shawn admits, "I mean, I saw who's grave you were at and I heard the kind of stuff you were saying and I- I didn't think you'd want to know."

Lassiter doesn't understand how this could have happened. It makes him feel like the world is too small and suddenly every breath he takes is heavy and unbearable. Shawn got to know Jeremy, got to have more than one conversation with him, got to call him his friend. It doesn't seem fair to Lassiter.

"...how long did you know him?"

"About half a year. We were sophomores together. I'll be honest though, I had no idea he was dead until today."

Shawn takes in a deep breath and then strides over to the couch. Very carefully he sits down beside Lassiter, making sure to still keep a cushion's worth of space between them. The dark blue material of the couch suddenly feels like an ocean to Lassiter and the younger man to his right is just a drifting boat that dropped anchor too close to him.

"When did that craziness happen anyway?" Shawn asks.

"Seventeen years ago,"

"Seventeen? Wow...that would have made him-"

"-ninteen."

"Yeah..."

Shawn doesn't ask how he died and that's probably for the better. Lassiter doesn't think he'd be able to tell him. He'd get too angry, work himself up over it. It angers his sense of justice and at the same it just makes him upset as a person. Nobody should be killed because of a sexual preference, granted Lassiter has a list of things people should be killed for but orientation is not one of them.

"...how did you know him?"

Lassiter looks up like he's been woken up rudely. He hadn't thought about that, that Shawn would ask him how he knew Jeremy. The question sort of sits in the air, an awkward surprise to the cop but Shawn looks at him half expectant and half apologetic. Lassiter gains his composure and looks at the door as an equally awkward answers tumbles out of his mouth.

"I met him once. At a party. I may or may not have given him his first beer and he may or may not have kissed me."

He waits for Shawn's punch line, the expected joke but he receives silence. He looks back at Shawn to see him staring down at the cushion separating them. He looks like a despondent fisherman, gazing in the tightly knit water under him.

"Well?" Lassiter asks.

Shawn looks up at him and shrugs.

"Well what?"

"Aren't you going to say anything?"

"Your little monologue at the grave makes a lot more sense now."

Lassiter rolls his eyes. How is it that when Lassiter braces himself for Shawn, Shawn ends up surprising him? It's infuriating. However, as the cop looks back to the other man, he notices the bottle cap laying on his fingers.

"So what's your story behind that?" Lassiter asks, inwardly gulping a bit.

He's terrified to hear anything. His mind races, thinking what if Jeremy had kissed Shawn? What if they'd had sex? What if they'd been lovers? Just how much intimate knowledge did Shawn have of him? And what bothers Lassiter equally is just how much carnal knowledge Jeremy had had of Shawn but why that bothers him he doesn't know.

"It was the night before he moved," Shawn says, playing with the bottle cap, "I'd gone over to his place and he was drinking but that was normal. He drank a lot. I think it had to do with his dad but then I had problems with my dad too and I never drank, not really anyway. We bonded over that, our mutual daddy issues."

Lassiter could tell that the oblivious man meant that as sort of a light hearted joke but it just made the cop's insides twist. The anticipation didn't help either as he dreaded and waited for something that would clear up the sexual context between Shawn's old friendship. He could swear he felt sweat on his palms and he nearly jumped at any word that even sounded like 'sex'.

"So, he's drunk and telling about how he wishes that he could just be himself and I agree with him. I learned he was gay pretty quickly."

"How?"

Shawn chuckles a bit and smiles fondly. He might as well have shot Lassiter right in the heart. The conflicted detective can't put it into words but he doesn't want anyone else to have been with Jeremy. He wants to perserve that memory, keep Jeremy as his first kis and leave it at that, unsoiled by anything else. But it's more than that. It's Shawn. Shawn Spencer cannot, absolutely cannot, have done anything with him. Because he's Shawn. And Lassiter hates the heartbreak he's feeling as he looks at that warm smile.

"He kind of had a thing for the senior quaterback," Shawn laughs, "not that he ever did much about it but I knew."

Lassiter takes in a deep breath, somewhat relieved but before he can stop himself, words come out of his mouth.

"Did you and Jeremy ever..?"

"What?" Shawn looks confused, "Oh! No! No, no, no. My list of men I'd go gay for is a very deliberate, short and highly scrutinized list. Not that Jeremy was a bad pick or anything. I mean good for you-"

"-get on with the story, Spencer."

Lassiter feels calmer now, relieved, but somehow that relief makes him feel sick and he wonders quietly to himself who the people on Shawn's list are. The fact that it's a _list_ alone makes the cop's head swim.

"So before I leave, he reaches into a draw and pulls out this bottle cap and he tells me that he wants me to have it. I, naturally, asky why, and he told me that it'd bring me courage one day, courage to do something 'a little crazy but wonderful' as he had put it. I totally forgot about it until I was visiting my dad the other day and I found it in a box of junk. Lucky really, because I've been needing some courage lately."

"You? Needing courage?" Lassiter says only slightly sarcastically before asking, "For what?"

Shawn smiles and wags his fingers in a 'no no' fashion. He then tucks the bottle cap back into the safety of his pocket and inadvertantly moves closer to Lassiter.

"No point in saying it until I've accomplished it," he says, "that's how we big boys get business done."

Lassiter scowls at this and there's this feeling that they're back to normal. The gloomy air that was around earlier has disapated. Shawn isn't looking a a bottlecap fondly, Lassiter doesn't have his heart pounding in his chest and the couch is once more a couch. There's still a lot they didn't talk about but Lassiter feels like that's okay. He looks into the kitchen opposite Shawn and feels a smile coming on. Jeremy described the bottle cap as something that gives one courage. Not just courage but courage to do something crazy and _wonderful_. And somehow the cop feels like with that little statement, that little bit of Jeremy's mindset that everything is going to be okay and maybe, just maybe he can forgive him.

"Well, Lassie," Shawn says, his hands giving a singular clap "you and I have the day off today, so what say we- I don't know, want to bake a cake?"

"...no."

Lassiter starts to get up and head for the door. He then pauses when he realizes that he came here on Shawn's motorcyle.

_The little bastard is trying to trap me!_

Not that Lassiter particularly wants to go back the station or back home or anywhere really. Today was just a lot to take in and even the idea of a ride home in a cab seems tedious. However, the alternative is to stay here with Shawn and...bake a cake apparently.

"Ah, come on! Okay, maybe not a cake. We could watch a movie!"

"Spencer, I highly doubt your collection of movies will in any way keep my attention."

"I've got Clint Eastwood."

The cop freezes in place and ever so slowly does his gaze land on Shawn. The pest is sitting there on his blue throne, surrounded by his palace of clutter and he's wearing the biggest smirk known to man kind. He knowns that Lassie is a sucker for an Eastwood movie. Reminds him of his childhood, the good parts, and simaltaneously reinforces his inner machismo and patriotism. It's like waving a cracker in front of a parrot, a carrot in front of a horse, the proverbial dog and his beloved bone. Shawn pats the couch slowly, being sure to milk his opportunity to work that grin and there's something sensual about. Lassiter tries to force the blush off his face as he silently sits back down, giving into the effortless task of watching a movie.

"Atta' boy, Lassiecakes-"

"Shut up and put the movie in."

**A/N: Can you imagine Shawn and Lassie baking a cake together? :D IT'D BE THE FUCKING CUTEST THING EVER. Quick, everyone tell the writers that we want that! XD Lol and no, this fic isn't over yet. IT'LL NEVAH BE OVAH. D:**


	8. Cake?

**A/N: I like writing, especially after an eight hour shift and no sleep the night before. Dx**

"So I show up to his apartment, assuming the worst from all that damn yelling he was doing on the phone, I throw open the door and he's just standing there, with a bunch of yellow goo everywhere!"

Juliet makes a face that's a mix between amusement and disbelief as Lassiter continues to rant to her. The cop notices this but he keeps going, unable to stop himself. It feels like he talks more and more about Shawn these days and even if it is complaining most of the time, it's still talking about him and that's almost irritating enough a thought to make him quit complaining all together. Almost.

"And I mean _everywhere_, O'Hara," Lassiter goes on, his face reddening, "on the counters, the floor, his apron, his face. So naturally, I start berating him for making me think he was in some kind of trouble and then we get down to the task of cleaning up that unholy mess he made."

"And then what happened?"

Juliet tries to keep her smirk to herself but her partner can see it. The glee in her face is hiding in those adorable dimples and there's a laughter in those gray blues of hers. She's the type of woman Lassiter had been attracted to all his life, funny, powerful..._blonde_. It mystifies him sometimes when he remembers how beautiful she is and subsequently realizes that her beauty stirs nothing but a platonic appreciation in him. They just fell into these roles, the sister and brother act. Not that he doesn't love her. He'd go to the ends of the Earth to protect her and at the end of the day he just really wants her to be happy and really what more is love than that? He doesn't need to love her romantically, just regular love is good enough.

"He started going on about how important it was that he do this right and do it today and I tried asking him what but he kept ranting and then he just started shoving things in my hands and telling me to go there and do that and then go here and do this!"

"And you listened to him?"

She's outright smiling at this point. She really doesn't deserve the end of the story for that but Lassiter lets it slide.

"He was in panic and I was _trying_ to be helpful. It wasn't until he finally put the batter into the tin that I realized he was baking a cake."

"You mean you both were baking a cake."

Lassiter scowls at her but it just makes her quiet the grin on her face. There's something about it though, something in the crinkles by her eyes that makes Lassiter question her amusement. She's found Shawn getting his goat funny before but there's something suspicious about all this and it isn't the first time Lassiter's notice either. She's got a smile on her face like she's got a secret but no matter what he says or does, she never outright tells him what she knows and it's starting to frustrate him.

"Okay, Shawn baked a cake and you inadvertently helped," she rephrased to put her partner at ease, "and... after that?"

She raises her perfectly plucked eyebrows like she's expecting something juicy but what that might be Lassiter doesn't know.

"I may have stayed for a slice."

By the time Lassiter was half through with chewing out Shawn, the sweet smell of a pineapple upside-down cake was drifting through the whole apartment (which was questionably cleaner than usual). And Lassiter had to admit, it smelled good and he did help bake it (even if he hadn't completely agreed to doing so). In fact, it smelled so good that Lassiter stop talking mid sentence and his grip loosened on Shawn's shirt collar.

"Y'know," Shawn said temptingly, "if you wait another ten minutes...you can have a piece."

Lassiter reluctantly released Shawn who made a mad scramble to his television. He dug underneath the set, throwing dvd's from the cabinet recklessly.

"Spencer? What are you up to now?" the head detective asked, following after him and subsequently avoiding one of the flying cases.

The excited man child held up a DVD in triumph but Lassiter hardly noticed this as he reluctantly picked up the rejected movies and neatly stacked them on the coffee table. He hoped that Shawn would treat his other possessions better especially ones that he's supposed to care about. The small tower of eighties films are his proverbial Bible, him quoting and referencing cheesy scripture all too often in the course of a day. Still, in the back of his mind, the detective admired the pest's determination to get to exactly what he wanted.

The movie started playing and Lassiter didn't even bother to complain or fight it. He agreed to wait the ten minutes for cake, not the hour plus for a movie but Shawn was so ridiculously excited that he let it slide. He still gave him a displeased scowl though, just to show that his acceptance of this was begrudging.

It opened in a prison which of course captured the cop's attention. It appeared that one of the inmates had committed suicide not that Lassiter felt any sympathy for him. He was after all a criminal and a weak one at that if he had to resort to suicide. He had a note on his chest, probably to convey some sad story meant to make Lassiter feel bad for him, that said "to whom it may concern". The guard on duty flips it over and Lassiter's mouth actually drops a little to see the backside message... "You shmuck. Do you really think I'm stupid enough to kill myself?"

Thus one of the most interesting escape plans occurred and only within the confines of a few minutes. And despite the fact that Lassiter didn't want to be interested, he was. So much so that when the oven dinged to signal the cake's readiness, he'd forgotten the cake alltogether.

Shawn paused the movie after the tropical baked good had some time to sit and Lassiter almost whined he'd been getting so into the movie. The culinary master waves his impromptu assistant over and Lassiter gives in, too tempted to try the result of their efforts. The cake was...cute. At least that's what the stern cop thought when he looked at it. It was all golden brown, garnished with pineapple slices and little cherries. It looked too cute for someone as manly as he to eat but...it also smelled too good not to.

Sure enough, it was good. It wasn't the traditional chocolate cake that Lassiter preferred but it was still good. They ate quietly for a few minutes, reveling in their accomplishment (though Lassiter did have the sinking feeling that Shawn knew how to do it along and made a mess just so he'd have company).

"You remind me of one of the characters," Lassiter said.

"I sort of am an older, ruggedly handsome version of Mikey aren't I?" Shawn responded, some cake still in his mouth.

"What? No, not that one. The other one. The one that talks a lot. Is a pain in the ass?"

"...are you seriously comparing me to Mouth right now?"

"Mouth? Well that makes sense. You remind me of Mouth."

Shawn looked beyond unhappy with that comparison but then he smiled and there was a slight quirk to it. It was almost a smirk but not quite. Nonetheless it rised the detective's suspicions as he put another bite of cake into his mouth.

"And what charcter, pray tell, do you identify with?" Shawn asked.

Lassiter thought about it as he chewed. Indeed what character did he feel in tune with? The main character, Mikey, seemed to much of a dream chaser. Mouth was just a smart ass. Data, the little Asian boy, just seemed offbeat. And Chunk...Chunk was a whiny idiot. He could say Brand, but then he didn't quite level on the teenage boy's ridiculous machismo. Lassiter in the end decided to shrug.

"None of them."

"None of them..._yet_."

Lassiter raised his eyebrows at this but was then reminded how much he actually wanted to finish the ridiculous film so they returned to the couch and roughly an hour or so later, Shawn gave a congratulatory slap to Lassiter's shoulder and smiled.

"And now, Lassie, you can say that you've watched _The Goonies_."

Lassiter rolled his eyes but secretly, very secretly, he did feel some pride. He'd made it through one of Spencer's stupid movies and it really wasn't all that bad. Yeah, it had some major plot holes and some of the dialogue was weird but it wasn't bad. He never did find a character he identified with but it was still worth it in the end.

"Favorite scene." Shawn demanded with the utmost seriousness.

It was like he was trying to delay Lassiter from leaving but his mind came up with ways to stall so quickly that the cop almost didn't notice. Nonetheless, the feeling of being put on the spot overtook Lassiter, who pondered for a minute before surfacing with an answer.

He almost said it was the kiss scene. The one where Mikey went to check on Andy and she kissed the younger boy thinking he was his brother. There was something about that scene, a sort of cutesy reminder of his past, that he found endearing. It made him blush a bit at the time but overall it wasn't so bad remembering anymore. In fact, it was almost nice.

"The ending," Lassiter summed up quickly.

Shawn rolled his eyes and turned more toward the cop. The younger man thought that Lassiter was making a snarky comment, a sarcastic way of saying that he was glad it was over.

"No I mean it," the older man clarified, "I like what that little blonde girl said on the beach to that Mouth boy. It was-"

"Sassy?"

"-clever for her age," Lassiter said with narrowed eyes.

"Which line?"

Lassiter paused, attempting to remember. He knew the gist of the dialogue but he wasn't so sure he could relay it verbatim All the kids were standing on the beach and Mouth had come up and thanked the girl for something, Lassiter couldn't remember what. It was sort of flirty and ambiguous and clever, for children, and he supposed that's what intrigued him. Not that he was like that or desired that sort of flirtation. The single cop wasn't exactly a cassanova to say the least and he preferred the straight forward. Nonetheless, he could appreciate the flirting, when he was outside of it and could see it that is.

"I think it went, "Your voice is kind of nice...when you're mouth isn't screwing it up."

Shawn has a grin on his face and he leans in closer to the cop. When had he actually traversed the distance between the couch cushions? How had Lassiter not noticed? The younger man smelled good, like clean and cake. There was something attractive about the sly smile on his lips too, the way they tilted to the side or something, a sort of cheeky interruption to the other man's five o'clock shadow. It made the stern cop's face go red and his ears feel hot.

"What are y-"

"Your looks are kind of pretty..." Shawn said, that smile growing sincere for a second.

And in that second Lassiter felt his heart skip a cliched beat. The steady thud of it just jumped over its pattern and made a pass at abnormality. For the first time ever, the detective noticed that Shawn's eyes were blue. Not ice blue like his own, or grey blue like O'Hara's and not standard blue either. They were a mysterious sort of blue that shied at green but not quiet. A sort of aqua hazel, if that made any sense. His mind waited for the colors to move or swirl or shift but he didn't catch it in time. Shawn's facial expression had changed back into its smart ass undertones. Lassiter barely even registered the other man's hand on his cheek.

"- when your face isn't screwing it up," Shawn winked and with that Lassiter was slammed back into reality enough to push the other man away.

"I'm out of here!" Lassiter practically yelled as he stormed, red faced, out of the apartment as Shawn trailed after him laughing and apologizing all the while.

Not that he tells O'Hara all this. Absolutely not.

"And then?" she nudges sweetly.

"...and then I went home," Lassiter lies as best as he can.

She looks disappointed but she tries to hide it. She awkwardly pushes her bangs off to the side before deciding to speak.

"Did you at least have fun?"

"I was with Spencer," Lassiter says flatly, his eyes in a half glare.

The blonde smiles a bit, to herself first and then outwardly to her partner. She has a fantastic smile. She could have been on tv, in commercials or modeling pastel, knit cardigan sweaters in magazines. And she's so sweet and so hardworking. She really could have been anything she'd set her mind to but she chose to be a cop and Lassiter feels some pride in that.

"That's not a no, Carlton," she says with a cutesy smirk.

...but there are still days he really wishes she'd just stop talking.

**A/N: LASSIE AND SHAWN AND CAKE AND THE GOONIES? What is this business? What in God's name have I done? D: Anyway, please leave reviews and like/reblog the link if you came from the land of tumblr. Thanks! :)**


	9. One Serious Gus

To put it simply, Lassiter has a spring in his step. There's almost a beat in his usually militant walk. His lips are pursed and from them comes an airy version of "Honey Bee". Lassiter even smiles as he waves hello to the braver coworkers that greet him. By the time he's at his desk his mouth is locked in a half smile and he feels more than ready to take on his paperwork.

"...Carlton?" Juliet asks suspiciously.

Carlton looks up from his desk and his partner is almost taken back by the full and genuine smile the other man is wearing.

"Oh, good morning, O'Hara! How are you?"

The blonde is severly confused. Where is her grumpy partner, coming down the hall like a stern captain? Where's the regulatory sigh that accompanies him sitting down in his chair? Where's her greeting of a 1/4 smirk and a head nod? Who in God's name is this man sitting here in the head detective's seat acting like he's just about ready to hug everyone?

Jules wonders briefly if the pod people came for Calrton but then she shakes her head and tells herself to stop hanging out with Shawn so much.

"I'm good, but uh-" she says with a curious grin, "-how are you?"

Carlton's smile breaks out even further to the point that his face seems like it never had anything but a smile on it.

"Well, O'Hara, I'll have you know that you are looking at a man who's successfully completed three months of therapy."

The blonde reciprocates the smile her partner gives her, although not with as much gusto. She has to admit that the therapy had been doing Lassiter some serious good. He seemed less tense than he was before and today, well... today he's practically beaming at everyone. Even the way he glances at his computer screen is as if he's looking forward to his monotonous filing and typing. His happiness is a little unerving at times but overall it's almost...sweet.

"Well, I'm very proud of you, Carlton," she says, "and to think you said that it was going to be a bunch of psycho-analytic bull crap."

"It's still bull crap," Lassiter says, his smile grimacing a little before switching to a sort of resigned satisfaction, "but it's helpful bull crap."

The female detective takes this as her cue to go back to her own desk and the two of them write reports and comb through files for the next few hours and those hours are glorious.

Lassiter speeds through his paperwork with a renewed productiveness. When his last appointment ended with Dr. Strauss, the attractive chubby therapist smiled at him, shook his hand and told him that she felt Lassiter was well on his way to leading a very happy life and just hearing that made Lassiter feel like he already was leading a happier life.

Everything felt like it had been changing. He became more daring with his wardrobe, pairing new ties with his suits, ties with slight, quiet patterns on them. Shawn had even convinced him to buy a purple one and he wore that tie today with a sense of pride at his own bravery. Even the sound of his coffee maker was different. Instead of chugging, Old Faithful bubbled. Lassiter's Bostonian's didn't squeak, instead the leather gave out a soft giggle. And slowly but surely, the hidden stash of Civil War items emerged from the closet. He had a pair of old style rifles hanging over his couch now and a uniform hat on his book shelf. The cop had even decided to finally invest in his own 'rompus' room, clearing out on old storage spot to fill it with a collection of weaponry to rival any arms dealer. He'd paint it too, something cheery he thought maybe a nice blue...or a green...or a jade-cerulean...

_Or an aqua hazel or someth-_

Lassiter's eyes grow wide as he realizes exactly what color he wants to paint the soon to be renovated room. He can't berate himself long though as the owner of that aqua hazel shade comes striding into the room, Guster in tow.

"Afternoon, Lassie!" Shawn half declares, half greets.

"Spencer." Lassiter says with a mock coldness before glancing at the other man's best friend, "Guster."

Gus merely nods dutifully. Lassiter can't say that he's ever hated the pest's best friend. The cop and the pharmacist didn't really have a relationship when it came down to it but Lassiter felt like Guster might be the kind of man he could have a decent chat with maybe over coffee or something. He certainly helped him learn to tap dance but that was the extent of their interactions. Despite this Lassie knows that the dark skinned man is still, hands down, strange and annoying but less so than Shawn if for no other reason than him actually having a sense of self control.

As usual, Shawn invades the detective's space with abandon, practically sprawling out across the desk. The scent of him hits Lassiter for the hundredth time; the teasing bite of citrus fruit and...aftershave. Lassiter eyes Shawn's cheek and sure enough it's freshly shaven. His skin looks soft and clean and Lassiter gets the sudden urge to touch it. The detective of course goes red in the face and forcibly turns back to his computer screen.

"I'm assuming the plans tonight haven't changed?" he asks through gritted teeth.

Lassiter and Shawn have a bit of routine going on at this point; once a week they meet up and watch movies together. They alternate who picks what movie and slowly they had begun sharing two of the strangest movie genres ever; Clint Eastwood and 80's flicks. Yes, Clint Eastwood is his own movie genre. Lassiter is sure of it.

Odd as it is though Shawn finds a lot of little things to like about Lassiter's favorite actor. In particular he liked Play Misty For Me, he said that Eastwood had a lot of long, far off looks in that one. The way the fake psychic had complimented the serious expression of Eastwood made Lassiter feel uncomfortable though. It was almost as if the younger man had a crush on the vetern actor but the detective buried that notion away as abruptly as he'd shoved popcorn in his mouth.

Shawn leans in closer to the head detective, a smirk on his lips and that damn eyebrow arched up.

"Your place or mine?" he says in a seductive whisper.

Gus' eyes grow wide and they dart between the still seductive Spencer and a flustered Lassie.

"Oh, Jesus, mercy!" the detective shouts to Gus in agitation, "It isn't like that! We just watch movies!"

Thankfully, Jules makes an entrance and asks to talk to Shawn about something. However, there's that sort of suspcious smirk on her lips and it makes Lassiter cringe especially when Shawn so willingly follows her with a sort of skip in his stride.

_Please tell me they're not getting back together_, the cop inwardly groans with a little more panic than he'll admit to.

The blonde and the buffon take off into some secretive corner to scheme leaving Lassiter with one very awkwardly placed Burton Guster. The cop looks to the dark skinned man out of the corner of his eye, hoping that if he just goes back to his computer that he'll get the hint and leave. What awaits him though is not a look of unsure embarrassment but rather one very serious expression and a sense of annoyed duty.

"Is there something wrong Guster?" Lassiter asks, not entirely caring all that much for an answer but still sligthly curious.

Gus doesn't walk up to the detective's desk, he doesn't move, he simply blinks and takes a breath.

"Look, Detective Lassiter-"

It's odd how he uses his title and last name. Sometimes Lassiter forgets that Gus is his own person but looking at him now, far from the over dramatic super star, Gus is very much his own man. He has this authoritative way in his stance, a sort of calm and controlled power that lines up his legs. He has his own sense of sass as well, settled in the wrists that rest on his hips. He is so much a dancer but the kind that Lassiter can respect, the kind with discipline.

"-Shawn would hate me if he knew I was telling you this but-"

He pauses and it feels like the longest pause in the word. Lassiter can swear that in that momentary gap of silence that big things are happening. Somebody just said yes to a proposal, someone else just became a parent, another has just found the cure to a disease and yet another has just perfected the equation to a new molecular bomb.

"-I think that Shawn likes you."

"...excuse me?"

"He likes you, detective," Gus repeats, "and I don't mean buddy buddy meeting up for nachos and beer pong sort of like you."

The computer no longer matters. The paperwork and cases and surrounding officers, the whole department really, no longer matters. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Lassiter can still hear the world moving with the sounds of squeaking shoes, clacking heels, printers, ringing phones, and the slight hum of conversation but none of it matters.

"What are you trying to say?" Lassiter asks, taking comfort in that it came out less pubescent sounding than it did in his head.

"Shawn does not just sit and watch movies with anyone. What has he been showing you?"

"80's movies, why? Guster, you better start making some sense."

"Those movies are his babies, Lassiter," Gus says, his expression effortlessly serious, "Those films are his everything, his whole past, his motto to life- _everything_. And he's been sharing them with you-"

"But we've been watching my movies too!" Lassiter interjects, his face now fully red.

"You- you what?"

Gus looks incredulous and that puts a very _very_ bad feeling into the detective's stomach. The lack of food in his gut in downright painful and all that sits there is that awful feeling and suddenly the world moving around him is too loud. The hum of conversation berates him for his interruption, mocking him with its cool tones and bumbling rhythym.

"We've been watching Eastwood films," he answers almost nervously.

"You mean you actually got him to watch something other than his 80's stuff?"

"...yes?"

This causes Gus to move and the detective has never been more intimidated in his life. The purpose in those steps and the way Gus takes over the cop's desk with those huge palms is terrifying. The look in his eyes, those wide eyes with their hazelnut center look ready to depart something of dire consquences. Gus would have been a great cop, he really would have.

"Shawn is my boy, you understand?" he says, his voice hushed, "So if you're going to let him down, you need to do it tonight and you better do it easy. He doesn't take well to rejection, Lassie."

Before Lassiter can even think of what to respond with, Shawn and Juliet approach his desk and Gus backs off casually. He looks at Shawn with the ever present, expectant demure of his as if nothing happened. Lassiter finds he suddenly can't look Shawn in the eye and O'Hara looks like the cat that ate the canary. This is all a trap, some huge convoluted trap and he doesn't even know for what. Nonetheless he stares at his screen with renewed efforts even as O'Hara skirts back to her desk and the dynamic duo begin their exit.

"See you later tonight, Lassiecakes!" Shawn calls over his shoulder.

Lassiter simply gives a nod, still not looking, not wanting to look. It's trap. It's a joke. To think that Shawn Spencer has ...feelings... and for him? It's got to be a dream of some kind. Or maybe a nightmare. A nightmarish dream? A dream like nightmare? Lassiter isn't sure but he hopes that if he closes his eyes hard enough and focuses on the dark behind them that maybe, just maybe he'll wake up.


	10. Later That Night

**A/N: Sorry it's taken me a while to update this. Like everyone else, I've been having finals and projects and shit but most of that is done so now I can focus on this.**

There have been plenty of times that Carlton's felt awkward sitting next to Shawn. In fact, there are very few moments were he hasn't felt awkward in one way or another. Sometimes it was the fact that Shawn had one upped him yet again or it was that God awful tension the cop couldn't place and sometimes it was just the plain reality that Lassiter didn't know what to talk about with people, let alone someone as quirky and unique as Shawn.

But this particular time is the most awkward of times, it is the the alpha, the omega of all things uncomfortable. Carlton's new, navy blue couch is now the ocean (so much like Shawn's that it actually hurts) and the lights are so dim in the room that it feels like they've submerged themselves in the deepest and darkest of waters. Straight ahead is the the blur of lights, a semi-grainy 80's movie with that ginger girl in it, the one from the other movie with a wedding and a birthday but now she's from a poor, broken family and dresses oddly even for the 80's. The only thing really illuminated by the tv is Shawn's face, tinted a white-blue and he's got this small grin hiding in the corner of his mouth like he doesn't even know that the detective's drowning.

Suddenly, Shawn glances over and then does a double take as Lassiter quickly shoots his gaze straight to screen, hoping that he hadn't been caught staring.

"Something wrong, Lassie?"

Nope. He's caught all right. He focuses on the screen though, trying to catch something, _anything_ that he can make up an excuse with.

"...just wondering why this kid's bobbing his head like that..." the cop doesn't even have to feign his confusion as he watches the young man with the John Lennon glasses and the stupid hat as he cruises down the hall.

Unfortunately, this excites the man child, causing him to lean in closer and widen those uniquely colored blues of his.

"It's Duckie!" Shawn replies as if that answers everything, "The guy's just got his own groove. Wait until you see him dance later to the beautiful stylings of Otis Redding, you'll love it!"

"I'll be holding my breath," the cop clings to his disinterest desperately and turns a little away from Shawn, pretending to have a sudden hunger for the popcorn sitting on the table.

Guster has simply got this all wrong. There is absolutely no way that Shawn..._likes_ him. After all, it's just movies. Only movies. It's not like watching movies has an explicit romance to it.

Lassiter grunts a laugh as a girl hits Duckie across the face after his proposal for pregnancy and that earns a full fledged smile from Shawn. The cop coughs to try and cover up his already obvious enjoyment and he can feel the red tinge his cheeks.

Lassiter wishes the room was brighter and there's an uneasiness in his gut as Shawn gets up from the couch and hastily reappears with a beer in each hand. The cop can't even complain about the little shit helping himself to the fridge anymore, it's become so customary but they've never drank before when watching these movies and the idea of alcohol is unsettling. Lassiter likes alcohol, that's to be sure, but he likes drinking alone. Drinking with other people leads to...

-_heat and sweat and-_

...problems.

The cop's eyes linger a bit on Shawn's when he's handed the already opened can and his stomach flips but he sips it anyway if for no other reason than to have an excuse to look away.

The movie is at least good for distraction but it isn't long until Lassiter realizes that Duckie is loud and obnoxious, witty and awkward. He has this boundless energy and a quirk in his step and it all screams; _Shawn, Shawn, SHAAAAWWWN!_

"You put the Warsaw Pact is the pact named after Warsaw," the ginger from the movie says and damn it all if the following conversation isn't the epitome of Duckie's Shawness.

"I take it back," Lassiter grumbles.

"Take what back?" Shawn asks.

"You're not Mouth," Lassiter decides to be honest, hoping he can keep things light, "You're the Duck kid."

Shawn pauses, debates this for a second and then accepts. He takes a swig of his beer and the bottom on the silvery can rises high indicating it's emptiness. Apparently, being Duckie is acceptable maybe even a compliment.

Lassiter laughs internally fully coming to the decision that the pest's best friend is just plain wrong. Shawn is acting like Shawn. He's being himself the way he's always been. So, yeah, he's showing Lassiter some movies, so what? It's not like he's getting sentimental or physical or anything and the 'flirting' is just a part of his asinine nature. It's nothing. Gus is just being overprotective.

Duckie flops back onto the laced up bed and something in their calming ocean shifts. Suddenly the waters are too still and it causes the detective to glance at Shawn. And after Lassiter glances, he's trapped and he can't look away.

"I love this woman," the tv says, "I love this woman and I have to tell her."

Shawn's sitting there, stiffer than anything, brow furrowed and a fist pressed quietly against his mouth.

"And- if she laughs, she laughs- and if she doesn't love me, she doesn't love me-"

Shawn's stares at the coffee table and swallows hard, something that's deep in the back of his throat. Something heavy and terrifying.

"-but if- if I don't find out..."

"Lassie?" Shawn asks, still concentrated on that spot on the floor.

This is the calm before the storm. Lassiter can feel it in his throat, bloating out so much that it's suffocating him from the inside.

"...yeah?"

Shawn digs through his back pocket and there in his hand is the bottlecap and then with resolution, it's on the table. The tv gives it a dull shine and they both stare at for a while. Even though Duckie Dale is currently bumbling his way out of Andie's room, they stare at that bottlecap and it's conversationally silent and it's hard to breathe and for a full minute no one moves.

Then Shawn looks up and slowly he looks to Lassiter, he takes a deep breath.

"What are you-" Lassiter tries to ask it quickly, ask it fast enough to stop whatever's happening but Shawn holds up a hand and damn it all if it doesn't stop the cop's very heartbeat.

"I think it's time I come through on that something crazy, Lassie," Shawn says and he leans in closer and closer and closer.

Lassiter can taste the alcohol on the other man's breath, those full lips opened and too close. The younger man's head tilts to the side and world goes with it. The faint taste of beer becomes intoxicating and the darkness around them feels familiar. Lassiter's gut feels like the split second between stepping off the ledge and actually falling, that second where you're terrified of the drop but you can't go back.

But this time, he keeps his eyes open, wide open even as Shawn's lids fall close and his face gets too close and then right up against his. His eyes stay open as he feels those unaturally-soft-for-a-man's lips pressed against his own. And he watches, watches even as the younger man's face blurs into itself from closeness. A tongue pokes at his lips and even with just the graze of teeth, Lassiter feels that familiar beer and that causes him shut his eyes and his body to shudder.

And then he opens his mouth. And there's a tongue on his tongue. And hands on his hands, on his chest, running through his hair and it feels good and it feels safe. He even presses into Shawn, starting from the fingetips into the other man's sides and then his weight just ends up leaning more and more. The couch creaks under them with that sound that only a new couch makes. Lassiter can feel the want, the need welling up inside him as he hovers above Shawn and he wants to be like this forever.

But he can't.

He can't and he knows it because he's not a teenager. And this isn't a party. And Shawn isn't Jeremy. Because Jeremy's dead. Because he was gay. Because he kissed Lassiter. And Lassiter couldn't save him. Lassiter can't save anyone.

The tears start their descent just seconds before his elbows buckle and he sort of falls off Shawn in slow motion and lands in the consultant's polo clad chest. There's a button against the detective's cheek and it's cold and hard there. He wishes he could've shoved Shawn away, yelled at him or punched him. He wishes that anything else but this but he can't get up either.

"L-lassie?" Shawn asks, his voice embarrassed, "Um- you mind explaining this?"

The cop wants to call the idiot what he is. He wants to hit him hard in the stomach and tell him that he hates him for this, that he can't stand him. He's ruined everything. All the progress Lassiter's made is just in shatters around him, a sea of couch covered in the remains of his personal growth as he clings to a raft made of man.

Shawn's arms come around Lassiter very carefully and very slowly and that forces the crying man to start sobbing. His blunt nails dig into that green polo shirt like it's all he's got left to hold to and he makes hideous faces and chokes on his own tears as Shawn rubs his back at a medium pace, his attempt to be tender.

"Hey, hey," he nearly whispers into the top of the cop's head, "come on. It's all right. You're all right. I'm right here, buddy. You're going to be okay, okay? It's all going to be okay."

He's nervous and Lassiter can hear it. It's in the way he's ranting but it's also in the way his fingers are trembling against the cop's already shaking shoulder blades. He has no idea what he's supposed to do right now and Lassiter knows that and that makes him hate everything more but his voice is still soft and it means what it's saying.

The crying runs out after a while and even though Lassiter can feel his face pooled in his own tears and snot and spit, he doesn't get up. He can't. There's nothing left in him after all that so he keeps lying there even though he knows he's heavy and Shawn probably wants to go home.

"You're a liar!" Andie screams on the tv, "You're a filthy fucking, no good liar!"

She keeps yelling but sleep tugs at the broken cop's eyes and, in a way, it's therapuetic to hear someone screaming and raging. He wishes he'd had the energy to do that but he didn't. No, instead, he's lying on top of Shawn, still huddled against him like a child clinging to a teddy bear. He'll hate himself more in the morning but for now he surrenders to this, because there's nothing else he can do. He knew he was falling the minute Shawn went quiet and now he has no other choice but to lie here at rock bottom.

**A/N: Omg, all the angst! D: But at least I'm updating, right? **_**Riiiiight?**_


	11. And Then The Next Day

**A/N: Hey, I'm updating rather quickly. : D But first some reviews to address;**

_**Lurking Anon**_**: Thank you so much for all your kind words! It really makes me happy to know that I wasn't just another OOC fluff writer. And I'm sorry about the starts and stops to my writing but I try my best not to do that. I'm a reader too so I know how world shattering when writers are just 'lol imaa stop right herrre'.**

_**Oookami-jin:**_** Omg! **_**I was burning a pinapple scented candle when I was writing the cake bit.**_** O: O: O: PINEAPPLECEPTION! Lol, by the way, I always look forward to seeing you leave a little review on the new chapters. You and **_**Watson Baker**_** because the two of you have pretty much been with me since the beginning on this. : )**

Dr. Strauss looks comfortable in her jeans, white button up and blazer. Even her ponytail comes down in a sort of casual put togetherness; a dark trail of ringlets like thick, curled ribbon.

Lassiter however does not look put together and casual isn't the right term for it. He's wearing the same clothes he was yesterday but his tie is absent. Instead, his shirt collar is open and wrinkled, his graying chest hair showing. His face is unshaved and his five o'clock shadow itches in a way that it makes him rub the base of his palm over it over and over again. his hair is dishelved, the charming volume having gone flat and unattended since he last slept which was last night out of pure exhaustion on top of one Shawn Spencer.

"You're lucky my three o'clock cancelled, Carlton," the calm woman says as the detective shifts a little in his seat, "now, what is this emergency about?"

"It's about Shawn."

He says it quickly like ripping off a band-aid no- like taking a bullet. His confession is like a sharp, concentrated burning in his chest, the heat spreading out in a way that only metal tearing through flesh can induce. He keeps his shrunken posture, his torso bent, elbows on knees and face resting on his fisted knuckles.

"What about Shawn?"

What about Shawn? What isn't about Shawn right now? The pest's sudden interest now makes sense, all the meals and movies just a ploy. And O'Hara's cheeky grins and smirking eyes. And if that weren't enough, Guster had warned the cop in plain God damn English but had Lassiter listened? No, of course not, because how in the name of sweet Lady Justice could Shawn Spencer ever want Carlton Lassiter?

"He- he kissed me," Lassiter sums it up.

There's a quite in the office. The cop notices, though absent mindedly, that his professional help carries no semblence of personality in her office. Sure, it has a nice color scheme and it seems calming but there isn't a trace of anything that would identify her. Maybe that's for the benefit of her patients though. It gives them nothing to talk about other than themselves.

"When did this happen?"

"Last night."

"And how did that make you feel?"

Lassiter hates that question. He hates it more that the wrinkles in his aging knuckles and the way it feels harder to get out of bed in the morning. Not that it's all that hard anymore. Ever since the cop started his therapy and hanging out with Shawn, his bones creaked a little less and the crow's feet in the mirror didn't look so deep but right now all he can focus on is how dry and cracked his hands are and how he remembered them not but yesterday, calloused and firm.

"I was absolutely shocked," Lassiter says quickly, not moving, "surprised, _flabbergasted_, Dr. Strauss."

"I can understand that but other than shock, how did it make you feel?"

"...like I was damn near dying," he half mumbles.

More quiet and Dr. Strauss, despite her training, lets out a sigh. It isn't an exasperated one, it's sort of soft as if it's saying 'oh, Carlton, sweetheart.'

"Can you elaborate a little? Maybe if you give me some details, I can understand what you mean."

"He just turned over and kissed me!" Carlton suddenly shouts, his whole posture breaking as he shoots up into a stand and subsequent pacing, "He put his face on my face and his tongue in my mouth and put his grubby hands all over my clothes and I didn't ask for it! I never gave the slightest indication that I wanted to- to-!"

He finds himself at the one window in the room. Dr. Strauss either forgot to or chose not close the blinds like she usually did. So Lassiter stares outside, his eyes greeted with the sight of a distant Santa Barbara coast line from three stories up. He leans into the sill, feeling the warmth of the sun lap up at his half put together body. He rests a hand in his hair and closes his eyes and breathes in.

"So, you didn't like Shawn kissing you?"

"Christ mercy, no!" he shouts, his closed eyes bunching tighter.

The truth is that he kissed back though and he knows that. He felt that odd safety again and the spur to do more. He liked the hum of the movie playing, the sound of Shawn's breath so close to his own and tasting his beloved beer on someone else's tongue.

"Question," he says flatly, already knowing the answer as he continues through clenched teeth, "is wanting to be that way with him forever constitute as liking it?"

"...that's entirely up to you, Carlton."

Carlton could hate her for that answer but he doesn't. He could live with himself admitting it like that, half admitting it anyway. It's established and that's all that matters.

"So what happened after the kiss?" she asks, continuing to prod gently with her collected tone.

"I stopped it before we did anything- unsavory," he sighs but out of what he's not sure, "but the whole ordeal just- upset me."

He banishes himself from the window and returns back to his seat, his long legs getting him there much too quickly. He sits down and laces his fingers together and tries not to stoop over and hide in them.

"I- regretfully I cried somewhat and then he and I must have accidentally dozed off on the couch."

More silence.

"It reminded me a lot of...Jeremy."

Her eyes widen but very slightly so the cop doesn't see it. He's too busy staring at the floor anyway. Dr. Strauss clears her throat as politely as possible.

"Carlton, did you ever kiss any other men other than Jeremy?"

"Of course not!"

"And did ever feel about anyone the way you felt about him since then?"

"I-"

His mind races to Shawn. Immediately goes to him and holds his image there, that flawless image of him from that day on his couch after they'd watched _The Goonies_. There Shawn is, eyes serious and tempting and aqua hazel. He's fucking brilliant and annoying and odd and wonderful and beautiful and no matter how hard Lassiter tries, he just can't hate him anymore.

"I don't know."

Dr. Strauss nods, taking the response into account and accepting it. She then throws one leg over the other and reclines into her chair a bit. She's pretty and smart and seems like a fairly reasonable person. Why couldn't Lassiter have fallen held over heels for her instead? Or Juliet? Or someone, anyone else really, other than Shawn?

"So what happened when you woke up, I mean with Shawn?" she finally asks.

Shawn was gone in the morning. Lassiter almost didn't notice. He was groggy when he woke up. He rubbed at his eyes and wiped away some stray drool from his cheek. He then looked down, bewildered by the fact that he was wrapped up in a blanket. He didn't remember getting a blanket last night. He didn't remember stumbling out to the couch either-

And then last night hit him. He felt a deep shame and simaltaneous panic. He had kissed Shawn and then proceeded to break down like some teenage girl, sobbing into the confused man's chest until he fell asleep. And yet Shawn was gone that morning and that was more alarming than what had happened the night before.

"Spencer...?" the cop had called him almost shyly, a nervousness in the pit of his stomach.

For some reason or another, his eyes darted to his coffee table and he saw the bottle cap first. It sat there, staring up at him all rust and scratched paint. It wasn't all shiny and new the way it had been when he'd first given it to Jeremy but then Carlton wasn't all shiny and new anymore either.

His eyes then drifted to the left and next to the bottle cap was a letter. It was written on a stolen piece of yellow paper from the notepad in the spare drawer in the kitchen which meant that Spencer had been digging through his things. Or maybe he'd already dug through them and simply knew exactly where to find what he wanted.

The cop's hands shake a little and his eyes settle on that slanted all caps handwriting that belongs to the fake psychic.

_LASSY,_

_I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT WANT SOME SPACE OR SOMETHING. I WENT TO GET PANCAKES. I'M PRETTY SURE YOU LIKE PANCAKES BECAUSE, WHO DOESN'T? SO IF YOU WANT ME TO COME BACK WITH PANCAKES JUST CALL ME AND I WILL BRING YOU BACK SOME WITH ALL THE FIXINGS AND EVERYTHING AND IF NOT, THAT'S OKAY. I UNDERSTAND I GUESS._

_H & K'S_

_SHAWN_

_P.S I'M SORRY I MADE YOU CRY_

Now Dr. Strauss holds this letter in her hand because Lassiter had actually taken it, folded it up and stuck it into his pocket before he'd left to see her. She looks up, having read it and is about to say something but Lassiter cuts her off.

"And as for how it made me feel I don't know," he bites.

She quietly puts the letter on the glass table that separates them then sits back in her chair and bites her lip for a second.

"As your therapist," she says, "I have to tell you to navigate your feelings and decide what it is that you want. You have to take into consideration things such as; would this be a healthy relationship? Are you emotionally prepared for it? And if not then you have to tell Shawn in a clear and concise way ideally without inflicting too much damage to his self esteem."

She then leans toward the cop and pushes some of her long bangs to the side. Lassiter just wants to scream at her to tell him how he feels. She's a therapist for God's sake, isn't it her job to know?

"But I don't want to be your therapist anymore, Carlton," she says quietly, "I'd like to be your friend and speak freely as such."

The detective blinks blankly and then just nods. Having Dr. Strauss as a friend seems vastly superior than having her as a therapist. Primarily because then he won't have to pay her for advice but apparently she can say more as a friend than she could in her profession and that intrigues him.

"I know your break down had something to do with Jeremy and for the last time, Carlton, I am _telling_ you to let him go. It was not your fault, it was never your fault and it is never going to be your fault."

The cop gulps a little. She's a lot tougher this way, more blunt and he suddenly realizes that maybe he doesn't want her to just tell him.

"Meanwhile, you're having feelings for someone again and I understand that because it's Shawn that it makes it harder for you. He's a man, yes, but be honest, if Shawn was a woman, would it be any easier? He'd still annoy you and solve your cases and ultimately be a 'lazy but gifted little shit' as you so eloquently put it."

"Dr. Strauss-"

"Call me Romie."

"- Romie?" the cop shakes his head as she nods, "Fine, Romie...what are you trying to say?"

"I'm saying that it isn't going to be easy with you and Shawn," she notes, "you're both very strong personalities, neither of you likes to compromise from what I can gather and you get irritated with him quickly. Not to mention that you both work in a dangerous field, so loosing one another is more of a reality for you both and that's going to heighten everything."

It's like she knows everything. She really had been listening to what he'd been saying and that's a little scary how she's just laying out his life so simply. She gets up from her seat and walks over to the small table and she sits down on it now much closer to Lassiter than ever before. She put a hand on his knuckles and it makes his fists melt away.

"But speaking as a friend," she says with a soft smile, "I think you owe it to yourself to try things with him and I bet you anything you'll be a lot less miserable for it."

**A/N: BECAUSE DR. ROMIE STRAUSS IS A GOT DAMNED FANGIRL JUST LIKE THE REST OF US.**


	12. Good Ideas

**A/N: Final chapter is final. :D**

Lassiter takes a deep breathe. It comes in slow and swelling. It almost creaks in his chest as if he hasn't breathed this deeply in ages and that's probably true to some extent or another. The ringback on his phone is humming steadily in his ear and he wishes that he had the casual sense in him to just text but he doesn't. Instead he waits, impatiently as the ring drones on for what feels like hours.

It's been a day since his emergency appointment with Dr. Strauss, or Romie as she now asked to be addressed as, and Lassiter has finally come to a decision. He spent the whole night, sleepless, tossing and turning trying to figure things out.

On the one hand, trying things out with Shawn seems like the worst possible decision. He's rude, obnoxious, arrogant, annoying, narristic. The list went on and on went it came to traits that Lassiter despised. Not to mention the little pest's biggest flaw by far is that he can't put any _honest_ effort into anything. He can put a lot of effort, good effort, strong effort but none of it is honest. He always ducks behind some guise or ruse so people won't come to expect anything of him and that's lazy no matter how you spin it. It's the most silmataneously irritating and heart breaking things in the world.

So Lassiter got up and out of bed and went into his kitchen. He put on Old Faithful, who gurgled and bubbled generously to fill up the silence. He figured that if he was going to be up contemplating this that he might as well be as awake as possible. He rubbed his fingers at his temple as memories of Shawn's less than favorable moments flashed through his head.

It's not a secret that Shawn gets on his nerves and, potential feelings be damned, Shawn is always going to get on his nerves. So if that's the case then why _try things out_ with him? The idea of going on dates seems like a pain in the ass and Lassiter hates the notion of having to have those relationship conversation like where they were, what they are, and what they're heading toward. Either one of them will evade when the other wants to talk and Lassiter has always had a bad habit of not saying the right thing to make people stay while Shawn has the horrible habit of saying things that push people away. Arguments will be hell, absolute hell and they'll probably fight over anything and everything.

The coffee had finished it's process and Carlton grabbed a mug, filled it up and began drinking. He had no time or desire for sugar. He just wanted to drink his caffiene straight up and be done with it. He glanced at the table and decided against sitting back down there. Going back to the bedroom was out of the question. He went into the living room at long last and sat on his couch, the couch that only the night before held Shawn who had held him.

The good thing about Spencer is that, at the end of the day after all is said and done, Lassiter can depend on him. The fake psychic may not always be sensible or calm but he is there even when he doesn't understand. Lassiter trusts Shawn with his life as much as he trusts O'Hara.

Lassiter managed to get through half of his cup when he saw the bottlecap still perched on the coffee table and just a few inches away was the leftover DVD's that Shawn and Lassiter had yet to watch. Among the collection is the Breakfast Club, which even Lassiter had seen. He rolled his eyes, Shawn wouldn't know that though because he thinks that the cop is some unculutured old man. Nonetheless, the detective found himself putting the DVD on and settling into the couch, his mug to his lips as the film opened.

Finally, Lassiter's call is answered.

"Lassie?" Shawns voice asks, half surprised and half asleep.

"Spencer," the cop says flatly but the usual greeting drifts off and the silence spurs him the extra mile, his lips parting, breathy and soft, "...Shawn."

"...yeah?"

The well practiced cop takes a deep breath. He knows how to handle a situation in need of damage control. Granted, he's not the best at it but he knows the general technique. He calms himself. Don't give out too much information. Needs to be done in person. Keep him relaxed but keep him engaged. He can do this. He can absolutely do this.

"We need to talk."

Lassiter is unaware that this is probably the worst thing to begin with. He's unaware that that singular statement has made Shawn's heart plummet well past his gut and probably somwhere in his toes. He doesn't know this and with the silence he's provided he contiues.

"Meet me here, my place, as soon as you can," he says, leaving no room for questions.

"Lassie, couldn't we just-" the younger man tries.

"No, in person, I-" Lassiter pauses for the briefest of seconds to assert himsel, "I _want_ to do this in person."

The false psychic sighs and it threatens the detective. Is that sigh a no? Has he missed his chance? Has the window of opportunity slammed shut and bruised his fingers? Or is that sigh a breathy resignation full of the disappointment he may have caused? Either way, it's terrifying to hear that escaped breath but Lassiter fortifies himself, ready to hear a 'no'.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," Shawn practically whispers.

Lassiter takes it for what it is and, too scared to ruin it by saying something more, he hangs up. He then waits. His stomach grumbles at him from his spot on the couch and he ambles up from the cushions. It was seven o'clock in the morning. Shawn would be here in no time, presumably, and he'd probably be hungry. The cop could wait on his breakfast wait and share a meal and as he's standing in his pantry, scoping out the possibilities, he sees a box and realizes exactly what he needs to do.

By the time Shawn knocks on the door, the table is set and Lassiter can feel his own fear rising from his insides. This could all go terribly wrong. Horribly, terribly wrong. Shawn could walk in here, see the meager offering, hear Carlton's words and react in the worst possible way. He could throw a tantrum, insult him, decide to never speak to him again. All things the cop doesn't want. He just wants to say his piece, let Shawn know exactly what's going on and he hopes to God and justice and whatever else will listen that Shawn takes it well.

Lassiter takes another breath, deep and chest busting, before opening the door and there Shawn is. His short locks are ruffled, a serious case of bedhead/helmet hair. His shirt is long sleeved, baggy around the wrists and obviously slept in. His jeans look just as worn, like he'd just grabbed them off the floor and threw them on. He still looks half asleep and Lassiter wonders just how much of a danger the younger man had been to himself driving that damn motorcycle of his like that.

"Lassie."

"Shawn."

He just pulls the door more open and Shawn hesitantly enters. Carlton starts to lead the way wordlessly but Shawn stops just a few steps in. The door is still hanging open letting in a breeze and foreshadowing a possible escape. Shawn's sneakers are firmly planted, unwavering on the wooden floor. The cop stares at him unable to speak for a moment but with a dry cough his voice is found.

"We should talk in the kitchen," Lassiter says, "You could eat something if youre hungry."

Shawn kicks his foot a little, gently, almost a sway. He's abnormally quiet and for the first time in his life Lassiter wishes the little oddball would speak up. It's completely diconcerting to see him like this, silent and pensive. There's a shyness about him that appears as a defense. He's ready to be wounded but Lassiter doesn't quite grasp that. Instead, he's just uncomfortable and unsure and thinks maybe he shouldn't have called.

"For God's sake," Lassiter grunts as he walks past Shawn and closes the door, angrily locking it as well. He then grabs Shawn by the shoulder and starts to drag him toward the kitchen.

"Lassie!" Shawn shouts, pulling his arm back to himself, "I don't want to do this!"

The cop is astounded. In all the years that he's man handled Shawn, the smaller man has never fought back. Yeah, he may have struggled a little here and there for play's sake but he never outright broke free. The energy around Shawn is dangerous, hurt and very dangerous and the cop is not entirely sure if he should be fed up or comforting.

"Do what?" he asks, deciding to gauge the situation further.

"Talk," Shawn spouts out quickly, his voice suddenly flooding out through his lips, "I don't want to talk, okay? I've never been good at talking, not like this. I'm not the serious type, Lassie. I don't do serious. And I really don't want to go into your kitchen just to sit down to poke around a bowl of Raisin Bran as you tell me that we're never to discuss last night or however you're going to phrase it. I don't want to hear you say it, okay? I understand exactly what you're going to tell me so we don't need have any sort of talk. I get it. I'm good. You're good. We're good. And now I'm just going to go home and pretend none of this happened."

"Spencer!"

He starts to turn and in desperation Lassiter reaches out and grabs his arm again. His grip is firm but his fingers are needy and while the the cop can't see himself, he can see Shawn and whatever face the detective's making it's making Shawn look more than surprised.

"- trust me," Lassiter says, his voice clear and solid.

Shawn blinks, confused for a moment, and then just nods. The cop's hand slides down Shawn's bicep, past forearm and wrist and finally entagles itself with Shawn's fingers. A blushing Lassiter, face stern and manly, leads Shawn by the hand into the kitchen.

Once there, the cop stands to the side and let's Shawn take in the sight of what he's prepared. There, on the small table, is a set of two plates, clean and emtpy, two mugs filled with coffee, a small tealite candle lit and set off to the side that Lassiter had managed to find, and there in the middle of it all was a stack of mishappen, burnt at the edges but still golden enough to eat-

"Pancakes," Shawn says, astounded, before looking at Lassiter "Y-you made me pancakes."

"I should have called you yesterday," Lassiter says quickly, trying to get the bad part over with as soon as possible, "I was confused and a little unstable about everything but I-"

He doesn't get to finish. In fact, whatever he was about to say is forever gone as Shawn presses his lips against his. The younger mans arms wrap around the older's shoulders, bringing him in close. Lassiter can feel those baggy sleeves against his neck, can feel slightly chappend lips on his own and it all makes his head swim. And there's no beer or music or darkness. There's only the shadow from his lids as he closes them, melting into this kiss like it's the only thing he's meant to do. His hands find a home on Shawn's lower back, pulling the psychic into him, holding to him like he's a anchor to the world.

Shawn pulls away slowly, his eyes fluttering open in the most attractive way. He smiles at Lassiter, soft and sweetly in a way the cop has never seen before. Happy but still a little dumbfounded, the cop manages to speak.

"You didn't let me finish."

"You didn't have to," Shawn says, "I told you, I don't like talking."

"But Shawn-"

He cups the cop's face gingerly, his fingers affectionately rocking back and forth on his jaw line.

"You made me pancakes, Lassie," he notes, "and you lit a freaking candle. I think you're saying plently right there."

Lassiter is frozen in this position. His hands don't want to let go of Shawn, don't ever want to let go. Still, the back of his head is racing, trying to regain all of his concerns as quickly as possible.

"No one else can know about this-"

"What about Jules?"

"No."

"Gus?"

"No."

"My dad?"

"You're kidding right?"

"Of course. But when you say that no one can know do you mean for forever or-"

"Not yet."

"Still closeted huh?"

"Shut up."

Lassiter fingers sneak into the back of Shawn's waistband, feeling the warmth of skin there and teasing Lassiter in ways he didn't know were possible. He forces his hands to awkwardly travel north a bit, settling on the curve of Shawn's back and hoping the touch doesn't rile him up too much.

"So, does this mean you're over...you-know-who?" Shawn asks.

"Jeremy?"

"Yeah."

"I am."

"How do you know?"

"Because- because I want you."

The cop grumbles it a little and makes it sound so much more simple than what's going on in his head. In reality, Jeremy is always going to be a small part of him. He was his first love really, however short lived and teenaged it was. Still, Lassiter wants Shawn, wants to be around him and be with him and in ways he didn't want to be with Jeremy.

But in the strangest of ways, if it wasn't for Jeremy, for that one kiss in the dark, Lassiter may have never let himself discover what he has and is having with Shawn. Tha kiss carried a spark that lasted for over twenty years and led the way to the one person Lassiter needed the most.

Regretably, Jeremy doesn't get this opportunity. He doesn't have the chance to be an adult and love someone like this. His father ended that, stopped Jeremy from ever loving another person the way Lassiter loves right now. But Jeremy's father can't stop everyone and Lassiter would rather be damned than not take a chance on this life, on these moment, on Shawn.

"We're not calling it dating though-"

However, the cop does like his baby steps and wouldn't hurt to just put off the finality of it all, even just a little.

"How about visitation?"

"Spencer-"

"It can be conjungcal," he smirks.

"SPENCER!" the cop goes red faced and backs up a little as Shawn presses into him.

"Kidding, for now," he says dangerously, "but dating is dating, Lassie, there's no going around that. Unless you... don't want to date me..."

Shawn looks Carlton straight in the eyes but his expression is soft. Those beautiful blues, those aqua-fucking-hazels turn turbulent with need so much so that Lassiter has to look away.

"Fine," he says, his mouth a tight line, "We're dating then."

Shawn drops his hands from the cop's face and pouts. He's kind of...cute when he does that or so Lassiter supposes. Getting used to the notion is going to take a while but then all of this is going to take a while. There's the matter of coming out to his mother (which shouldn't be an issue really), coming out to O'Hara, the department nestling its nose into his business, there's the matter of Henry and Guster (which are questionable at best even if the best friend already half knows it). It's really not so much the gay part as it is the Shawn part. Lassiter is sure he'll never hear the end of it-

- but then honestly, who could be worse about it than Shawn Spencer himself? And if Lassiter's dating the little twerp, he kind of has the leavrage to shut him up now and then. It can't be that bad, not really. And at the end of the day he has Juliet to support him and now Romie as well.

Lassiter thinks to himself fleetingly that Romie and Jules ought to meet. They'd get along great he thinks. Maybe.

"Don't look so enthused," Shawn says, still pouting.

"I _am_ enthused," Lassiter says, still half scowling, "I'm also thouroughly embarrassed and unaccustomed to- all this!"

He waves his hands around in the air and Shawn grabs them at the wrists. He smiles that warm, sweet, soft and incredibly inviting smile. He then stands on the tips of his toes, just enough to hover his mouth in front of Lassiter's.

"I think you can manage," he says and he just waits there, waiting for Lassiter to kiss him.

The unsure cop gives quick peck first, short and curt but Shawn still patiently waits for more.

There's a lot that they still haven't talked about and probably won't until it becomes a problem or surfaces in the worst of ways. Lassiter's temper is sure to get the best of him at some point. Shawn's bound to do something regretfully stupid and childish. They're going to have nights where they yell and shout and wish the other would just go away. Yeah, they'll have nights like that but they'll also have nights where they snuggle in close to one another, where they whisper 'I'm sorry' in between kisses, where they compromise and laugh, where they just sit next to each other, soaking in the silence, one hand resting in the other's and those nights would make it worth it.

Lassiter steals another kiss. And another. And another. He builds them up until he's truly kissing Shawn, until his tongue slides into the other man's mouth. He puls him in tighter, let's his hands roam his back and waist. All the while Shawn kisses back, fingers digging into salt and pepper hair, hips pressing up and against.

They break and look at each other for a moment. Neither knows what to say or if there's even anything to say. The feeling lingers in the air, hovers in the heaviest of ways and it settles on everything. It's so intense, so bright underneath the light of the kitchen and the streaming sun from the window. It's clearer and bigger than anything in the world. It's so there, it hurts.

Lassiter shifts their position, not wanting them to drown in the feeling around them. So he puts his arms on Shawn's shoulder and hugs him fiercley.

"Lassie," Shawn murmurs into the detective's chest after a few moments.

"Hm?"

"We should probably eat those pancakes now."

Lassiter lets go of the psychic and awkwardly manuevers around him to sit down. The small candle is already half melted and the pancakes are probably lukewarm by now. The butter's holding up though and the mug handle still feels warm as the detective takes a sip. Shawn reaches over and grabs the syrup from the center. He flips the cap and then just chuckles a little, light hearted and mostly to himself.

"What?" Lassiter asks, halted in the middle of putting a pancake on his plate.

"Nothing, Lassiecakes," Shawn says with a smile before turning the syrup upside down over his plate, "nothing."

Lassiter can't tell anyone if this is a good idea yet. He doesn't know if it's going to be positive and healthly for him but then who ever could? You don't know if the water's hot or cold unless you get into it. You don't know if you're really going to need a jacket or not unless you step outside. Lassiter is never going to know if having Shawn is the right thing but then maybe he doesn't care because maybe there is no 'right' thing in this world. Regardless though, if Lassiter has to pick whether or not this is a good idea right here and right now he'd have to say-

"So, you want to make out after this or should we skip straight to post pancake sex?"

-it's a start.

**A/N: FLUFF! I GIVE YOU FLUFF! :D Anyway, I had fun writing this and thank you to everyone who read and reviewed along the way. I'll probably get to editing this over the course of the month or so and hopefully I can get all my typos fixed. :)**


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